


Cirrus

by ridorana



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: M/M, ratings vary from G to M., see chapter notes for tags, standalone oneshots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 21:58:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 21,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11930109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ridorana/pseuds/ridorana
Summary: "He was taught to believe that two pirates could never be after the same thing and have it end well.He was taught by the same man that there is but one exception."A series of standalone Balthier/Vaan oneshots and headcanons-turned-ficlets, in the 500-2k range.





	1. Turbulence

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter One: Turbulence
> 
> Setting: Post-game, two years, Balfonheim most like. 
> 
> Spoilers: None
> 
> Established BalVaan: No(t yet)

“Unlike you, I know what I want. All you know is what you don’t.” Vaan’s words are sour serpentwyne, venom and all from the curve of his tongue. Gods forbid he hold it ever. Nay, he has never been known for such, but these must be words he's long-since bitten back. Balthier hears it in the haste and stumble of Vaan’s voice, as if they’ve been pounding at the closed gates of his teeth for years. Vaan is unkind, because now he can afford to be. Vaan is merciless, because his life is his now, now more than ever. Vaan is unbridled, because he’s never had anything to lose to begin with, and certainly doesn’t here. It is evident enough, in the way he does not spare a glance over his shoulder as he leaves.

It’s clear that he’s held at least this much in since year 706, in order to learn of the sky, of glossair rings, of how to clean congealed magick from faulty sky stones, of how to bank and crest the clouds. Yes, Vaan was well-behaved enough under Balthier’s gaze, until his wings were his own. What a two-faced little chit, all smiles and nods and _yes Balthier_ until given enough leeway to tear into the sky with such a force that the world would choke on his dust. Balthier sees this now; the force with which Vaan has stormed away to his ship feels oddly familiar. He’s pulled this trick before on many a burden in his years; turn your back and fly, such is the way of a sky pirate.

Ah, and so the scamp has indeed given way to fledgling pirate;less of a child he looks now, yet the insistent whimsical curve of Vaan’s nose belies his obvious desire to look his years - how many has it been, two? - he is in his twenties now, yes. When he’s angry he still looks like an orphan set on tearing down every Empire flag that once defaced the walls of his city.

It’s kind of cute. But he’d never say it.

In the scathing wake of the Dalmascan’s leave, Balthier notes that Vaan is taller and that Vaan is right. It's always been easier to _avoid_ than to pursue any single avenue of surety. If he can manage to sidestep _any_ ugly facet of what rendered him cloudbourne to begin with then everything else is acceptable enough.

That is what life is. Acceptable enough. ( _Fran is an outlier to all of this, a partner he still cannot fathom how he deserves. Fran is the exception. Everything else is acceptable enough. Has been. Will be._ )

He wonders what it must be like, to want instead of run. Vaan knows. And now, Vaan is older, and Vaan knows that he’s known all along. And so in that scathing wake of Vaan’s leave the silence of the hall is near-deafening, and it is here Balthier grows tired of his own games. 

The sky is an awfully big place. It will be long before the air crests their paths to cross again.

He takes only a moment, smiles - _what else has Vaan been holding back that he can know of, now?_  -  this he wants, and so he follows.

 

If he is quick, he will catch Vaan in the hangar.

If he is lucky, Vaan will be waiting.


	2. Skysong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Singing headcanon - Balthier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Two: Skysong
> 
> Setting: Post-game, open-ended, an airship hangar.
> 
> Spoilers: None
> 
> Established BalVaan: Yes
> 
> Further notes: this is disgusting. I hate them.

The hangar holding the _Tournesol_ is messy, as usual, and Balthier enters from an anonymous pocket of its cold metal confines to step into the sun streaming through the glass above. Vaan’s airship glimmers and hums, a gorgeous spectacle in the Dalmascan afternoon sunlight... not unlike its pilot blissfully unaware to his entrance as he tinkers with a tangled mass of cables in a heap.

Vaan’s singing.

Balthier allows himself to listen, frozen mid-step in a clawing shadow of Her wings. It’s a familiar tune, a Balfonheim shanty Reddas taught them years ago now.

He wonders how it’s possible to have been with Vaan this long and not known he could carry a tune. In the echo of the hangar, Vaan’s voice is a birdsong, carefree and warm. It causes something to stir within the older sky pirate, and the past few months away from Vaan - on some odd commissioned job that sent him traipsing in Rozarria for too long - come crashing down in a sudden spiral of tender want.

He’s missed Vaan.

The moment feels sacred, intimate, not meant for his ears but, ah - what pirate would he call himself to not be tempted by the forbidden? He allows himself a few more moments to collect the lilt of Vaan’s songvoice in a pocket of his headspace, one he’ll dig into on nights alone in their separate ventures when his bed feels too empty, like it has of late.

When he feels he’s intruded enough, Balthier joins in at a line he knows, and predicts when his attempted surprise-duo abruptly becomes a solo venture. Vaan stops mid-word as Balthier steps in, continuing the lyric in a flourish as he approaches his partner - his own voice lands tinnily on the Tournesol's metal as if She, too, is unimpressed.

Vaan’s back is still to him by the time Balthier approaches close enough to smell oil and rubber. “Well?” the pirate grins, and Vaan peers over his hunched shoulder at him finally, brow furrowed.  “What do you think? Not a bad entrance for a Leading Man.”

Vaan snorts, turning back to his task as he finishes unraveling a particularly stubborn knot. 

“More like Leaving Man.” The younger sky pirate drops the cables from his slicked hands and wipes his palms on his shirt carelessly, a gesture that mars the fabric with crude vertical streaks of black. He finally turns to look up at Balthier - not as high as he used to, but up nonetheless. The angle sends sunlight glinting the grey of his eyes and they flicker like Mist. Vaan wants to be mad - Balthier knows he does; his own absence was too long, and he takes off without word too often. But Vaan can’t stay mad, it is in the damnable generosity of his nature that belies his very profession, and Balthier is grateful for that, as it has saved his hide many a time. “You’re a creep, you know."

“And you’ve quite a voice. Never thought to tell me?” The long-stretched absence has gnawed at him during these months, when opportunity presented a lull long enough to give it thought, and here with Vaan so close, Balthier can't deny the pull Vaan beckons him with. It's no wonder he has to fly away so oft, if only to remember what it means to breathe with a heart that does not hammer at silly orphan-boys-turned-pirates. 

“You never asked.” Vaan’s voice warms to him with each sentence though he wants to keep them cold. Balthier pulls him in, and finds with some self-deprecation that he cares little of the oil against his well-worn doublet. He is due for a new one, anyway, and wants Vaan close more than he wants the old thing clean. How piteous. Ah, but he digresses, tilting a beringed finger under the rounded chin of his Dalmascan. His thumb teases the seam of Vaan's lips.

“Consider me asking now, then - may I venture the invitation of a duet?”

Vaan rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling now, leaning into his warmth. Balthier feels Vaan's lips move beneath the pad of his thumb.  “Only if you stick around long enough for an entire song.”

They kiss. It is long and sweet and when they part, Balthier’s eyes are alive with sun streaking from the reflection of Tournseol’s wings. “Oh, that and more.”


	3. Salt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vaan's a dingus. Balthier is too, but it helps he can spot a riptide before it snatches smaller dingus away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Three: Salt
> 
> Setting: In-game, Balfonheim arrival
> 
> Spoilers: None
> 
> Established BalVaan: Yes
> 
> Notes: Drabble response to domestic headcanon meme on tumblr - "Do they act different when they’re in private/public?"

Balthier’s limbs splay languorously about the rickety seating in the Whitecap as he nurses his Madhu, Fran opposite him. Too long has it been since they’ve stepped foot in Balfonheim and he can say with some fondness that he’s missed it. Long has their journey been and long will it continue to be - back in the web of sea and sky pirates makes him feel a bit like his old self, before ugly wrought faces of the past decided to snake themselves back into his happy life of sin and debauchery. 

Speaking of sin and debauchery, Balthier wonders where the errant street-orphan that burrowed his way like an insistent little sandbug into his bed last night is up to on their first afternoon in the city of pirates. He thinks of the night prior, and the Madhu isn’t the only reason he’s grinning into thin air. My, a lithe boy indeed. He’ll have to thank Penelo for teaching Vaan to bend like that, no doubt. 

“Ah,” Fran’s lilted voice pulls him from his reverie, which he also must thank her for, because blood was running south fast at the memory, “it does not take him long to find the heart of Balfonheim.” Fran is looking down at the door from their balconied perch, and Balthier follows her gaze to land right on said errant street-orphan. Balthier chuckles at the sight. Why, he can nearly see the boy’s heart hammering out of his chest with the pure adrenaline of it all, eyes alight in the womb of all things Pirate. He’s nearly beside himself, mouth agape in a toothy grin, head turning left and right as if he were a hatchling chocobo fresh out of the nest. How cute. Balthier watches and thinks to beckon him up, but nay - Vaan has an awfully adept knack for finding him, whether or not he wants to be found, it won’t be long until–

_Oh._

_Oh no._

Balthier nearly knocks over a chair in his haste to stand as he watches a group of nearly five burly sea pirates approach the sunkissed Dalmascan immediately, with a bodily interest nothing short of licentious. _Oh, this is certainly not to happen_ , Balthier thinks as he weaves with little care of grace through the packed tavern. How foolish he was to think Vaan would not be immediately regarded in Balfonheim as - well, there are lots of plundering jokes to be made, let’s just say that.

By the time Balthier pushes aside a burly Bangaa that snarls at him with a maw that probably had more than just three teeth at one point, he has reached a wall of muscle. A wall of five heaping hunks of muscle, adorned with tattoos and reeking of fish and salt. Their backs are to him as they surround Vaan and  _why are they so tall_? Suddenly Balthier is reminded why he hates sea pirates. Not a subtle lot, are they.

“I’m Vaan!” he hears Vaan say in a response over the backs of the oafs before him.

“Vaan, eh?"  
"New here, are ya?"  
"We’ll have t’show you around.”  
"Y'wanna come back to our ship?"  
  
Their voices layer together like some disjointed graceless cacophony and their blatant thirst for a sample of a Dalmascan Desert Oasis makes Balthier seasick.

“Ah, Vaan.” Balthier’s voice is a smooth ripple over the clang of their choppy diction. Just because they live on the sea doesn’t mean they must sound like it. Rough and tumble, too much for his liking. Balthier slides through the sea pirates like ice across glass, and hooks an arm around the boy’s shoulders, tugging him close, very close. “We were wondering what took you so long. Come, let us drink.” 

“Huh?” Vaan grunts, and Balthier can feel five pairs of eyes narrow on their forms. 

“Bah,” one says. “Balthier always gets the pretty ones.”

Balthier wagers he should recognize the voice but cares not to shuffle through the files of his memory and place why exactly he knows any sea pirate personally. He writes off the recognition as a mere stamp of his glorious reputation, and leans his head against Vaan’s. His eyes flit across his newfound audience and he grins.

“Sorry lads,” he says in a way that implies he most certainly is not. “Finders keepers and all.” And here, he presses his lips to the crown of Vaan’s sunsoaked flaxen hair. “Come along, Vaan.”

“Huh?” he says again as Balthier drags him off. “Hey, I was making friends. Did you see that one guy? He had a freaking  _eyepatch_.”

“Vaan,” Balthier continues, guiding him up the stairs to where Fran waits with a grin, “You’ve a lot to learn about what  _friends_  mean to men stuck with only each other on a dinghy in the middle of the Naldoan Sea for months on end. You can thank me for teaching you the easy way.”


	4. Enchanted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dancing, and crack, and minx Vaan, and Balthier [having war flashbacks](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11439312).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Four: Enchanted
> 
> Setting: Post-game, Archades, late afternoon before a heist
> 
> Spoilers: None
> 
> Established BalVaan: Yes
> 
> Notes: Drabble response to dancing headcanon meme on tumblr re: Balthier

“Fine-faced though you are, Vaan, I know you at least know how to count to three.”

Vaan huffs indignantly and scratches again at the stuffy Archadian bodysuit monstrosity he’s outfitted in. All things considered, he looks rather becoming, and if he could wipe that expression off his face that screams Someone Please Help Me and Let Me Run Around in Crop Tops Again he could look almost befitting of the Archadian ball they’re crashing tonight. “I was doing it just fine. One two three one two three one two  _let me fucking leave I wanna go home and I hate this stupid outfit_.”

Balthier scratches the back of his head. Seems he couldn’t count after all. How sad. Never mind, he thinks, the boy will be distracting arm candy enough. The Archadian gentry despise same-sex relations despite the legality of them; thus the spectacle of he and Vaan together at this soiree will be distracting enough while Fran pilfers the grand manse outfitted in opening-night grandeur for of the Opera star Yagadia Ni'idrie Licentio. The dancing is really just for fun, a special bonus as Balthier lives to make the ilk of his blood reel backwards in disgust. Would that he could do so while waltzing with Vaan, _oh the looks on their faces would be worth more than whatever Fran will get her hands on for them_ , but he should have known such a venture is no different to teaching a sewer-addled Gigantoad to play the lute.

The taller sky pirate of the two takes Vaan’s waist again, pulling him close. “If you’re wont to be so very insolent 'gainst all cultural norms despite the matter of a lucrative heist, at least confine it to the shake of those hips of yours. I’m well acquainted enough to how those move,” he adds almost ruefully, remembering a night he'd almost rather not in a haze of snakehyps, liquor, and way too much shock factor. He swallows, thickly. Wouldn't due to get distracted here, though an airship hangar is hardly a place for a waltz rehearsal. “Now, let’s try this again.”

Vaan’s face is flushed to match the crimson brocade of the cropped jacket layered atop the bodysuit. Balthier would say it’s from embarrassment but no, Vaan’s actually just extremely overheated. He isn't used to wearing clothes, clearly, and the summer heat in the hangar is admittedly stifling. “Can I get some water first? All this ballroom stuffiness makes me thirsty.”

Vaan breaks from his hold. Balthier watches the Dalmascan sway away, putting on a show with those hips, and finds himself licking his lips. “Do bring me a glass of that, then, would you? Neat, with a twist.”

Vaan snorts and waves his hand dismissively as he saunters up the gangplank. “At least take me to the ball first, Balthier.”


	5. Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon tumblr ask: What little gestures do they do for each other?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Five: Honey
> 
> Setting: Post-game, two years, the Strahl.
> 
> Spoilers: Big honkin' ending ones.
> 
> Established BalVaan: Yes
> 
> Warnings: Heavily-taken liberties with the state of Balthier, physically and mentally, after Bahamut. He is covered in burn scars, and has permanent nerve damage. Additionally - PTSD, and depression, hence some stream-of-conscious writing patterns. This is very H/C, and is a response to Tseecka who gave me a tumblr domestic meme prompt: "#24 - small gestures they do for each other". I got carried away.

 

After Bahamut, it is hard. After Bahamut, it is different. After Bahamut, he is not the same, and at night the phantom pains haunt and the scars burn. Sleep, oh, she is a wench. She holds him in her grasp longer than she ever used to, deeper, and when he wakes she lingers like a furling curtain of smoke in his headspace, pulling, siphoning, floating heavy like the stark black curtain of Blind even when his eyes are open, open, finally open -  _ they’re open, dammit, I’m awake, by the mist release me, you hag.  _

He feels less of a pirate, now. He has for some time.

After Bahamut, exhaustion pries at Balthier early in his days. Things didn’t used to be this hard. Now, his globetrotting feet ache more than they used to, earlier than they used to. Everything aches. Balthier feels shame at this. He feels a shame, a loathing, helpless pit that threatens on some days to swallow him whole. His mind yearns for flight, his body begs for sleep, his dreams scream of fire, oil, falling, black-blood and burning.

It has been two years since Bahamut, yet it lives on in his veins like his father’s blood. 

Balthier has learned a way to trick the panic that finds him in dreams. It is, at least, one way to hold onto his old self - to outsmart, to hare. The damnable nature of humes is that their minds are wont to change and Bahamut played a merciless catalyst at this, barbed at his vigor and valor alike and he feels a muted version of himself that he’s still trying to rebuild even now. 

Vaan’s hands help. But they can only do so much. And he? He is tired. Always. 

The first step in tricking this panic that knows him too well is to wake from these nightmares in silence. Do not scream. Do not shout. The jolts can’t be helped - not when  _ Fran is writhing and burning before him from a bursted vent and his arm is pinned beneath debris and he can’t help her, she is burning alive, and no one can hear them, and they are falling on top of Rabanastre _ . Ripping himself from that nightly hellscape into consciousness won’t ever be without a fullbody tremor, but at least he has learned to keep his voice silent (for months after Bahamut he would wake Fran, and she would be at his door, unlocking it with skilled hands only to be dismissed -  _ off to bed with you, Fran, ‘twas just a dream. ) _ It won’t do to wake Vaan, either. Vaan, who anchors Balthier to his own bed and to reality, when he wakes from one heat into another - Vaan’s heat, that soothes and does not burn.

When Bahamut falls again one night, and he’s crushed beneath cloying smoke and he can’t breathe,  _ can’t breathe, he’s on fire and he cannot breathe _ , Balthier wakes with a jerk and no sound, never sound. He’s become good at this. He wakes, as usual, with the small magicite lamp lit from Vaan’s side of the bed, and Vaan is awake, waiting, with a cold glass of water and tired eyes that will never hold it against him. 

They exchange no words. A sign, at least, that Vaan has grown, or at least become very, very used to this. Mayhap both.

Balthier drinks, long and deep, and the ice water douses the firescream pulse scorching through his veins. In the cabin, he breathes, and Vaan breathes. It is quiet save for that, until Vaan rustles under the comforter to nest back under whatever monstrosity he’s created in the tangle of the sheets. Balthier remains sitting, covers pooled around his naked waist, and finds that at this hour and at this point, modesty be damned; he is covered in scars from neck to shoulder to torso and Vaan is not vain, Vaan does not care, and that took long enough to accept but if this is acceptance then so be it. The dim orange light paints along the juts of Balthier’s long-since burned flesh that will never heal right, raised in places that look like the Ester’s cliffs from the Strahl. 

Balthier grips the now empty water glass with naked hands mottled with Bahamut’s fire. The rings, they don’t wear like they used to. They rub the wrong way, and his hands will never be the same in most places. When they make love in the pitch black of his cabin, always in the dark, never in the light, Balthier has to press his fingers harder and deeper in Vaan’s skin just to feel him beneath his touch. With the sun, Balthier will don his gloves, tight leather tanned and stretched in Jaharan sun; only when he retires for the evening does he remove them, only in the night does anyone see, and Vaan sees, he touches, he cares so damnably not. Insistent little sandbug with a heart of gold he’ll be hard-pressed to find any match to, Vaan peers at him through tired eyes from the pillow and reaches out, reaches out, reaches out.

“Come back to bed, ‘thier.” 

Vaan has learned the lines of Balthier’s body like the dunes of the Ester, and Balthier, damn him, he damns himself - he has let Vaan learn him in this way. He touches that spot on his arm where fire did not burn, where it still feels like skin, where Balthier still feels like he could fly. Just right there, in small circles, lazy lines; and he doesn’t have to say that’s his favorite spot because Vaan knows by the way Balthier squeezes his other hand and dares to let out a small, tired noise from his throat. Sleep will find him easily. Sleep, as of late, always has.

And so he presses his back to Vaan’s beautiful smooth torso, and let’s his Dalmascan’s warmth and body-hum envelope him in a way that feels right. 

In the mornings, Vaan wakes before him, always. And always, oh, how the mornings are the worst. Waking to the world in his bed, Balthier is a dead weight sinking into the Naldoan Sea after a fall from Kaff Terrace. Some days, it is simply enough to open his eyes. Afternoons prove to be better, sometimes. Whe the sun is at its zenith, Balthier can find it in himself to rise out of bed - and when he’s feeling particularly ambitious and spiteful to the exhaustion that plagues him, he can rise in the morning’s hours. Those days, however, are few and far between. 

Today, Balthier wakes and it is like being dragged from the pull of an ancient waystone - he feels like lead, inside and out, and he can tell by the way the shadows splay from the cabin’s skylight that it is not noon yet. Good. Maybe he can fight the day for longer than usual. Maybe, today, he can be closer to himself, his old self.

His cabin is empty, the bed is empty. He skims his fingers along the covers next to him and finds them still-warm. He lets out a long sigh, and caresses the singe-wake of Vaan’s body on his bed, their bed. Idly, Balthier stares at the white rumple of cotton sheets and recalls Bur-Omisace, its grand ravines, treacherous blizzards, lethal snow-stealth Lobos, its ice that sang in the wind.

It had been fun then, it had all been grand fun.

He traces a wrinkle in the linen that juts from the bed, and imagines climbing again. He is getting there, slowly but surely. Vaan tells him so, and Balthier believes him, because Vaan is not a liar. 

Sleep still lingers behind his eyes. When he blinks, his body begs,  _ close them longer, go back to sleep, just a little while  _ \- it whispers like Ultima, a seductive hiss, and Balthier thinks  _ no, today I will be alive. _

He is not sure where he summons the strength from to pull himself out of bed, but he does, and he trudges like an ancient Golmore titan to the washroom. Cold water wakes his nerves but does little to douse the smolder of slumber that still sings  _ go back, go back, you can still go back _ . Balthier runs calloused fingers from his brows down over his eye sockets and to his neck, skimming over coarse night-whiskers, and he screams at his body to wake. He presses his fire-numbed fingers into his flesh and demands it. 

Food, he thinks, is a start.

When he emerges from the washroom, Vaan is seated on the edge of the bed and breakfast is plated on his lap. Eggs, over-easy, and toast slathered with that honey he knows Balthier likes, the kind the nomads harvest in the Highwaste. It’s already got a sizeable bite taken out of it, and Vaan has crumbs on his face.

“Sorry,” he says, licking sticky honey remnants from his thief-fingers, “I couldn’t resist, and you were taking longer than usual. Anyway, eat up already. The eggs are gonna get cold.”

Vaan is the only thing that brings a smile to Balthier’s face as of late, and it is a terrifying notion to consider. He will never let this boy go. 

  
  



	6. Lucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part two of the domestic headcanon ask, "Little gestures they do for each other", this time Balthier to Vaan, for @tseecka. I giggled at this idea, because "little gestures" and "Balthier" don't go together - this man hardly does things by halves. 
> 
> This is unrelated to Ch 5: Honey; again, these oneshots each are standalone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Six: Lucky
> 
> Setting: Post-game, two years, Nalbina aerodrome.
> 
> Spoilers: None
> 
> Established BalVaan: Yes. They are cute. Have I mentioned I hate them?

Vaan resembles a storm-ripe Mardu Entite as he thunders down the gangplank of the _Tournesol_ , despite the summer sun streaking through the aerodrome. Balthier waits for him, arms crossed and brows raised. He lets out a low whistle by the time Vaan finally reaches him, a trail of lightning and fire in the wake of his steps. 

“You weren’t kidding, I see.”

Vaan fumes and thrusts his arms outwards in a fit.

“Those assholes! Those _ fucking- _ -” oh, and that is only just the start. Vaan goes off, and does he ever. He’s pacing back and forth, stammering and shouting curses that would make Fran excuse herself had she not already before Vaan’s landing. The Dalmascan sky pirate jabbers off like a Firaga spell gone wild into the space of the hangar, and Balthier lets him, listens, winces only slightly when Vaan’s voice cracks in the sheer heat of his rage.

When he’s finally through, Vaan’s panting, and his hands have found their way to a tangle in his bedraggled blonde hair. He heaves through chapped lips so dry that they crack with the force of his words. He looks like a bull chocobo Rozarrians use in illegal slumfights.

“Well,” Balthier starts in what would be Understatement of the Year, “yes, it would appear they certainly did a number on her, didn’t they.”

“ _ A _ number? How about, like, five? Or ten? A hundred! A hundred numbers, Balthier,  _ look at her _ !”

Where Vaan is flame, Balthier is the smooth coursing water, ever the mediator. Soothing Vaan has become somewhat commonplace since, oh, perhaps the very day they met.

“Yes, yes, I can see. A blindfolded Bangaa could.” Though, he can’t help but mirror some of Vaan’s distaste as he gazes upon the  _ Tournesol _ \- or rather, what’s left of it. It’s a feat Vaan managed to dock her in Nalbina after what the scrappers rendered it to. 

Along the base of her hull is a crude, long gash that snakes the entire perimeter of the compact ship. She’s a lovely thing, though of Rozarrian forgery and much smaller than the Strahl, the  _ Tournseol _ is fast and light and a perfect fit for his fledgling little sky pirate. It is due to perhaps this Rozarrian origin that it was targeted by the Mosphoran scrappers; models of this base prove rarer than most and her design is custom. Shame, this.

With a furrowed brow Balthier traces along the scar that digs into the steel and bubbles at the edges; it’s larger than the width of his hand and it seems they went at it with fire-magick-infused blades to smelt her siding but only started the job. Good news, for the most part, but she’ll be out of commission for some time, he wagers. Vaan’s acrimony is well-warranted and he squeezes the Dalmascan’s shoulder affectionately. It settles him somewhat, and Vaan leans his head against Balthier’s arm with a heavy sigh. 

“The scrappers, what of them?”

Vaan is still staring at his ship as if she were a crater where Rabanastre used to be. It takes him a moment to register Balthier’s question. “I woke up to the sound of them marring her, and only barely made it to disarm the two lighting the explosives. They scattered like yensa when I brought out the Altair and nailed one of ‘em in the back.”

Balthier laughs here, once. Ah, yes, he would have paid good coin to see Vaan’s sure-sighted gun-hand fell a Mosphoran scrapper from the cockpit of his ship. It’s, admittedly, a rather seductive vision to entertain. 

“She’s certainly been thrown into a muddle, but it’s not to last. She can be mended. Be glad it wasn’t your skin, Vaan,” he adds - scrappers care little for the wellbeing of the pilots, Balthier has heard enough horror stories of that to know. All things considered, he is glad Vaan is safe.  They would have killed him with no regard if Vaan had been even one of two things: a lax pilot and a weakling. Lucky for them both, he is neither. The situation almost would have been funny if it weren’t so very not - Balthier would have liked to see the looks on those scavenger’s faces upon Vaan’s wrath and piloting finesse (the latter taught by his hand, no less). The ship, ah, she is not a pretty sight now, and he would be nearly beside himself were it his, so Balthier can hardly blame Vaan’s tantrum. 

Vaan however is looking at Balthier as if he just sprouted a second head as he tries to decipher the notion he and his ship are separate entities; the expression is nothing short of adorable and indeed one Balthier has donned many a time himself early into his career. A man is his ship, and all that - it makes sense Vaan cares little for his own wellbeing if his ship is groundbound. 

“I barely even made it here,” Vaan murmurs, and his voice is a crushed thing that causes Balthier’s heart to pang - damn the little Dalmascan and his peach-lipped pout he wants to kiss away. “This’ll take weeks to repair, and I don’t have the gil for it.”

“Now, now, enough with the dramatics - Fran’s been restless of late, and will be more than happy to accompany you on hunts to fill your satchel and ah, if I must, I suppose I will tag along,” he adds in a groan that is nothing but pretense, and he follows it with a wry grin as he nudges the blonde. It isn’t enough to make Vaan smile, but he nods anyway. 

“Thanks.” His voice is small, but sincere.

Together they further assess the damage, pirate next to pirate, window-sun on their backs.

“It appears mostly cosmetic; what else of her?” Balthier inquires, and Vaan moves to walk along the length of the ship, under the shadow of her wings and to the back. Balthier follows. 

“I wish. The bastards lit an explosion mote beneath her rudder, but they were stupid and lit it wrong before I got to them - still, it blew enough to tilt the yaw by five degrees - god Balthier, you should hear her axis tilt, it’s enough to make me sick-” Vaan rambles again now, and Balthier is listening, he swears, but he can’t help the fond smile that graces his noble features as Vaan spouts airship argot with finesse and fluency. He thinks back to days with Vaan’s hands on the Strahl’s yoke, gripping, shaking, getting the controls a right sweaty mess with his nerves. My, how the lowly have risen. 

“Balthier, are you listening? Why’re you smiling?” There’s irritation in the edge of Vaan’s voice and Balthier wagers the boy needs a nap. 

“Come now, let’s get you fed and washed. The Tournesol is docked safe here, and is like to stay for some time. We’ll figure something out, little skystone,” he pauses here and squeezes Vaan’s hand at the nickname and ah- there, the tiniest of smiles, he knows Vaan can’t resist that one - “For now, the Strahl is waiting.”

Vaan lets Balthier guide him away with a hand on the small of his back, and as they leave the hangar, he turns over his shoulder to look at her. His pride and joy, his year and a half of hard work, bartering, gathering design inspiration, his trips to and from Rozarria, drawing crude shapes to throw at moogle engineers -  _ I want her wings like that and a skystone base like this, to transmit power to the thrusters faster -  _ and she glimmers weakly in the late-day sun setting in the desert. His sigh is a defeated thing, and the hangar door shuts, leaving her in the silence.

Hours later in the Strahl, Vaan is still a rigid taut thing gnarled into knots, but Balthier works at him lovingly with his mouth until Vaan is pliant, trembling, hard and thick and so good between the pirate’s lips. Sleep finds the Dalmascan in the wake of a particularly good orgasm (Balthier spoils him, Vaan knows this, Balthier knows this, and neither care to complain), and he lies comatose on Balthier’s sheets. In his dreamless sleep, Vaan is blissfully unaware of Balthier taking a midnight leave.

Vaan wakes, late and blearily to the mid-morning sun and an empty bed. He finds the Strahl is empty of both pirate and viera, and thinks to head to the Tournesol. Sleeping on this won’t have helped the matter, but at least now he can get a fresh look at her and start to tack down the first things that need to be tended to.

Upon unlocking the hangar door, Vaan finds himself two years younger all of a sudden. The hangar is empty. The hangar is empty, and the Tournesol is not there, and there is a feeling - no,  _ feelings _ , too many feelings - that roil up and render him paralyzed as seconds screech by.  _ The hangar is empty, the hangar is empty, where is she, what happened, how did this happen _ ,  **_where is she,_ ** and suddenly Vaan is eighteen again and the Strahl is gone and he can’t remember how to breathe.

“Looking for your ship, pirate?”

Balthier grins as he steps from the shadows and Vaan startles, voice frozen in his throat at the man’s coeurl-curled lips. In his hand Balthier holds a small device, and with an exaggerated flick of the wrist he presses the switch.

In the blink of an eye, the Tournesol reappears, right where he had left her yesterday.

Vaan is speechless, but now for a different reason altogether. He stares at her, fish-mouthed, bright eyes wide.

“Well?” Balthier pries, and he nudges Vaan playfully, “Is that the thanks I get?”

Words find Vaan now, though not without an awkward stammer beforehand. “Y-you did this?”

“Who else would stay up through the drudgery of the night to install a cloaking device on your girl? Ah, I digress, don’t give me all the credit -  buy those moogles of mine a hearty pint sometime, would you? Their little hands tied this all up rather nicely.” Vaan is still staring at the ship. Her scars remain, but that feels of little matter to him now.

Balthier presses it again, and she disappears. Vaan can’t help it - he giggles like a child, and Balthier can’t help the smile it brings to his own face despite the exhaustion pulling at his eyes. He’s rather admittedly impressed with himself; cloaking devices take quite some time to install but the Tournesol is a compact little thing, enough that it took only a fraction of the time he expected. 

“Those scrappers and bounty hunters will be hard-pressed to find you both now, won’t they? And needless to say I’ve fixed that flouting little yaw issue. She’ll be good to fly once we--”

Vaan’s kiss is a searing press of his mouth, so hard that Balthier can’t even move his lips beneath them to return the sentiment. When Vaan pulls away with a smack, he’s smiling a big, stupid grin that has made the ten-hour night working beneath blinding lights and endless twists of wire worth it.

“Thank you,” Vaan says breathlessly, and he’s looking at Balthier in that way, that damnable way that Balthier loves and hates all the same. 

“You’re lucky I’m fond of you,” he mutters, squeezing Vaan’s rear, and Vaan kisses him again, longer, slower. When he pulls away his voice is honey-sweet and tender.

“Yeah, I am.”

  
  



	7. Rally-Ho!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Response to Anon ask on tumblr re: headcanon meme about them getting married.
> 
> Crossover with FFIX.
> 
> See notes for context.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter One: Rally-Ho!
> 
> Setting: Post-game, three years, Conde Petie (FF9 ; see below for quick context notes) 
> 
> Spoilers: None
> 
> Established BalVaan: Yes very much so
> 
> SO please regard:
> 
> My typical BalVaan headcanon dynamic does not involve them getting married! This is extremely cute and fun and self-indulgent. So, at first to this anon request I said "No, sorry!". But then @sovaz reblogged an FF9 gif of Conde Petie and I giggled at the adorable Vivi-Quina marriage and how funny that was. So then I thought, wait, I could do something like that for them! 
> 
> (context for those who didn't play FF9: In order to access the path to continue the game, you have to be married, and it's a short simple cute ceremony and once you tie the knot you can go onwards.)
> 
> So to me, that's the only way it'd work - they'd have to almost be forced into it, in something sudden and awkward and simple and ridiculous just to move forward and get some treasure.
> 
> I love them. Here's some self-indulgent BS:

At night, when stars pepper the sky in a tapestry of moondust, and grassbugs fill the air with their song, Vaan clears his throat in the firelight. **  
**

“So uh,” he starts, leaning back against Balthier, “I was thinking– about today, and all the weirdness,” he doesn’t have to specify _the weirdness_ , but he does anyway, because he’s Vaan, “the wedding, and stuff.”

“Yes?” Balthier pries gently, his voice a velvet purr always that warms Vaan in ways the fire cannot.

“Well,” it’s not often Vaan finds himself at a loss for words. If anything, the young sky pirate has too many, throws them around with abandon, but it’s clear a certain shyness has taken over him and the curiosity eats at Balthier, ever the coeurl at heart. “I mean, I know that it was just for show, obviously, and–and I’m not like, asking to call you my _husband_ or anything,” and here he wrinkles his nose in a way Balthier will never find not adorable, “because that’s super weird, but.” Another pause, and Balthier looks down at him, his nose a straight slanted angle against Vaan’s temple, “I mean, maybe… we could just kinda, roll with it, you know?”

The grassbug hum and the fire’s crackle fill the silence and Vaan is frozen, holds his breath; the ring feels snug and tight and warm on his finger and it reminds him of Balthier’s hold 'round his torso when they’ve the luxury of sharing a bed together amidst these strange ventures. Vaan likes it, he likes the simplicity of the silver, how it looks gold in the flame-light, how it’s smooth and seamless. If Balthier would allow him such, he wouldn’t take it off.  Finally, Balthier chuckles, a low and rich sound. “Vaan, are you asking me to be your husband?”

Vaan snorts. “You’re already my husband, as far as Conde Petie’s concerned.” His heart his hammering in his chest, as if he really did just ask Balthier to marry him, despite the fact they already are by the hilariously archaic technicalities of that dust-covered town now miles and miles away. Vaan anchors the fluttering in his chest to Balthier’s hand, where he rubs his thumb along the man’s fingers anxiously.

“I suppose I am, aren’t I? And thus, that would mean you are mine.” Balthier chuckles again, truly amused at all of this, but his hand covers Vaan’s and there is no denying his idle touch along the ring. “Wait until Fran hears of this. She’ll be so disappointed she missed the occasion.”

“Same for Penelo. She loves weddings.” 

"We musn't tell our dear Queen - she'll be after our rings in no time, to be sure."

"Before or after she's done laughing at us?"

And then they’re both laughing, together, at themselves, with themselves. It fades out and warms the air like the flames licking the night sky. 

Later, when the fire has died to a smolder and only the moon bathes the landscape, Vaan breathes in the scent of smoke and wood. He is so close to sleep, his bedroll tucked next to Balthier’s, and the terrain is hard beneath it but he’s slept on worse. Balthier, however, shifts uncomfortably.

“This is hardly adequate accommodation for newlyweds.”

Vaan can’t help his laugh here, and he rests his head on Balthier’s chest. It's comfy enough for him. Together they watch the stars, and Vaan–-Vaan, who is always so full of words and thoughts-–finds the dark expanse above to reflect down to his own headspace, and he is lost, pleasantly, in the view. For several moments, there's just a welcomed black tranquility where sun always lights every thought tenfold, fills his mind with noise and words. It is beneath the night sky that Vaan finds his peace of mind.

It is beneath the night sky, then, that Balthier’s thoughts come alive. His hands are on Vaan’s again, tracing the ring as he mulls. He never answered the question earlier, and that’s all right. Vaan does not blame him, he knows this. This was all very odd and very sudden, Conde Petie’s strange traditions barring their passage lest they swear their hands in holy matrimony. It was awkward and hilarious and weird and forced, earlier today on that strange altar propped upon curved beams over water, but Balthier can’t deny how beautiful Vaan looked with the sunlight streaming through the adobe temple’s windows, and the way he smiled, even if it was self-deprecating, even if his was too. He remembers the bird-light pulse of Vaan’s wrist as he held it in one hand and slid the ring on with the other. And he remembers the kiss - how it lasted longer than it needed to, how Vaan tasted sweeter than he normally does, but the audience that had gathered for the spectacle of two Ivalician sky pirates getting married in their ancient city made it all the more fun to draw out. 

(Yes, that’s why he tilted Vaan’s chin and kissed his partner for a solid ten seconds, tongue and all, under sunbeams alive with floating dustmotes. For show. Exactly.)

Balthier stretches his arm out to the constellations, and twists his hand experimentally, this way and that. The ring outshines its more vibrant partners with its simple stark pallor, not his style at all, but it is of a strong silver and it matches Vaan’s. In the starlight it whispers a shimmer, subtly glowing like a moon-cloud, and he thinks all at once that he could get used to wearing it.

That self-deprecating smile returns to Balthier’s lips and Vaan’s head bobs on his chest slightly when he laughs, again, for the umpteenth time. It throws Vaan from his zonal reverie, and the younger pirate tilts his head up, nose brushing Balthier’s jawline.

“What’s so funny?”

Balthier lowers his hand to lazily sift through Vaan’s soft hair; it bobs and ebbs in the flaxen tresses like a sun-addled Yensa through the Sandsea. “Everything, my betrothed, everything.”

The night is calm despite the long stretch of land ahead that holds what they hope to be treasure beyond their comprehension. But here, with Vaan’s hand in Balthier’s, their rings glinting in the orange flame, the older man thinks quietly to himself that even if there is nothing but an empty cache at the end of this journey, this right here is more than enough - something more valuable, indeed. 


	8. Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The door was locked, dammit. 
> 
> See notes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Seven: Stay
> 
> Setting: In-game, late (with Strahl)
> 
> Spoilers: None
> 
> Established BalVaan: Not really, but it's gettin' there in this one. Mm. Tension.

Balthier hears his (locked, god dammit, it was  _locked_ ) bedroom door slide open and it is evidence enough to recent rendezvous that he doesn’t have to guess who it is or even stir from his comfort on the mattress.

Vaan says not a word as he slides into bed next to the sky pirate. His desert-baked warmth bleeds into the sheets like a furnace, a fast-acting poison to Balthier’s resolve already waning with each passing eve. The sleepy little noises Vaan makes in his throat as he nuzzles under the blankets and against Balthier (with  _no regard_  to his comfort) also do not help with this whole  _resolve_  business. 

“Is it Dalmascan custom to anticipate invitation with such surety?”

“You could call us pretty punctual, yeah,” Vaan says after a long yawn that leaves warm breath ghosting across Balthier’s bare chest. The Archadian rolls his eyes though the gesture goes unnoticed in the dark of deep night.

“Funny, that. I don’t recall having sent word.” But he keeps his voice soft, his actions betraying his words as he returns the embrace and twines his fingers in Vaan’s; he feels the boy smile against his heartbeat where his face rests. 

“I know. That’s what makes me so great. You don’t even have to bother. Also, that hammock you slung up for me and Pen in the spare storage room isn’t exactly cozy, and your bed is.” As if to prove his point that he won’t be headed back _there_ tonight, Vaan slings his leg over Balthier to mirror his arm splayed ‘cross his torso. Warm and soft insistent little thing. It helps he’s freshly bathed too, but he’ll still somehow leave sand in the bed.

It has been long since Balthier has fallen asleep with someone. Slept, slept with someone, sure. Far different than this - though he won’t deny he’s thought of the latter option before. Each night as of late, since Vaan has started showing up past night-hour uninvited yet not unwelcome, that breed of thought has grown with an aching closeness and tension that hisses something hot. Balthier has yet to even kiss the boy, and still holds back for fear of where that would lead very quickly. He hopes to wait until the Strahl docks in the next port town, wherever the princess wills it in their pilgrimage, to do anything about it. It seems Vaan is set to wait as well, surprising though it is. They’ll have to dock somewhere soon and when they do Balthier has quietly put aside coin for a cozy inn room reservation that will last at least a few days (he does not think here, the irony of anticipating invitation).

For now, this is enjoyable enough, though his body hums with desire and his nerves sing at the proximity to Vaan’s body like this. It almost seems like a waste to not take things further in his own damn cabin upon his own damn ship, but company shared in nearly equally crammed proximity does not prove appropriate for such clandestine matters and he’d rather not keep quiet about this with how much he’s been looking forward to it. So, though his veins thrum with want and he feels Vaan’s tiny caresses on his bicep wander further with each night, he allows himself to find sleep against this newfound bedmate of a different breed altogether. At the very least, the boy doesn’t snore, and when he wakes early he’s wise enough to return to his hammock after prying himself from Balthier with only a small groan.

Only - when the sun rises this time and bleeds through the skylight, Balthier wakes to the ease of pressure from his chest where Vaan’s head has rested all night. Balthier’s eyes are closed but oh, dear, he can feel the warmth dissipate, peel away, he can hear the sleep in Vaan’s throat as he groans with the drowsy head-fog. A rustle of blankets follow, and the Dalmascan is about to head to his hammock again as these rituals have called for with morning, before Balthier’s hand sifts in his flaxen, pillow-mussed hair and guides Vaan back down to his chest. Another groggy noise from the youth follows, this time of confusion, and Balthier cracks an eye open to Vaan’s own half-lidded gaze.

“Stay,” his voice is heavy from his lips, raw velvet in the morning. Balthier feels the smile against his chest again, and Vaan relaxes back under the covers.

“Mm’kay,” he mumbles, and they both fall back to slumber before anything else can be said, though nothing needs to be.


	9. Thaw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "i like the cold when i'm with you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Ten: Thaw
> 
> Setting: Post-game, two years, Bur-Omisace
> 
> Spoilers: None
> 
> Established BalVaan: Hell yeah

"i like the cold when i'm with you."

bur-omisace does not know night. the pale moon hanging in a cloudless sky pours light onto the snow, and the holy mountains glow. outside the shelter of the pilgrim inn, the wind howls in tandem with lobos through the gusts, though there is nothing to hunt but frostbitten bones, brittle and black. unpleasant enough out there, but pleasant enough for balthier and vaan, who are curled ‘round each other in bed; it feels almost smug to be wrapped in the very kin-pelts of those vicious wolves padding through the blizzard outside...  _they’d_  make a tasty snack for those starving curs, to be sure.

the modest fireplace in the corner of their booked room crackles, but does little to drown out the windscream outside that whistles a shrill threat to any idiot foolish enough to step into its frozen ire. but that's out there, and they're in here - and with the fire and beneath the fur pelts, balthier and vaan are pleasantly toasty, even if vaan still yelps when the older sky pirate’s cold feet brush ‘gainst his legs teasingly. 

balthier’s voice, too, is a fire’s hum as it ghosts over vaan’s bare flesh; his lips rest against the tender juncture of his neck and shoulder, and his words are a lazy, tired, content drawl. “do you?” he goads gently in response, pressing a kiss where his breath has warmed. “even with that thin southern blood of yours which so oft falls victim to anything not resembling dalmascan sun?”

it’s late, and vaan isn’t the talkative type when he’s tired and cozy like this, so the extent of his already- _illustrious_ vocabulary resorts to that of just grunts. balthier’s learned well enough how to read them by now - for instance, whatever noise vaan just made was, at least, one of approval (or maybe he's hungry?). sometimes balthier feels like he’s learning an entire new language with the variety of noises vaan manages to conjure when he’s feeling particularly lazy; balthier’s not exactly sure _what_ he’d do with this fluency of grunts and groans, but perhaps if he ever time-traveled three thousand years prior he’d get by just fine with the locals with what he knows now. it _could_ come in handy - weirder things have happened.

though, pity - balthier’s feeling pleasantly buzzed from the local mulled cider the pilgrims brew at the inn, and can think of plenty of other ways he’d like to further thaw himself with his lover wrapped in fur pelts on a bed next to a fireplace. unfortunately, vaan seems to have other plans, because he’s already looking well on his way to a deep sleep like a hibernating snow-hare. the cherubic-like glow on vaan's face from the distant firelight also does not help with these desires, but it feels almost cruel to rouse him, and so balthier merely settles for resting his soft mouth on vaan’s own for one, two, three, five seconds in a lasting goodnight kiss.

“behave in those dreams of yours,” he chides, and the warmth to his own voice has stopped surprising him at this point. 


	10. Oasis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Tween a rock and a hard place, the sky pirate finds himself pinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr drabble for a request re: drunk balvaan. i cannot deny such a prompt.

‘Tween a rock and a hard place, the sky pirate finds himself pinned. The rock, quite literally, being the stone wall of the tavern’s alley, cold in the desert night; the hard place then, being Vaan, who is indeed as  _hard_  as he is persistent.

“Vaan,” Balthier's voice through his own drunken haze is thick, the liquor swelling his tongue and thus weakening his already half-hearted protest further. All he can feel aside from the chill winter air is Vaan’s mouth, hot and wanting and  _good_.

“You already let me sleep with you in your bed,” Vaan argues, and his lips explore a trail of lazy lackadaisical kisses along what little expanse of his neck the thief has managed to unearth from his clothing, “why’s this any different?”

“Because you’re slobbering all over my cravat.” Balthier's sentence comes out steadily as he swims to the surface from where Vaan’s heady pull threatens to swallow him. He pushes the Dalmascan away. Now is not the time. Tomorrow isn’t looking good either. Check back in a year, he thinks, maybe two. He  _knew_  he shouldn’t have given Vaan cuddling privileges. Cuddling is one thing and that wasn't even his idea when the insistent sandbug named Vaan burrowed his way into his silken sheets. This?--this is an entirely different... _Thing_ altogether. Give the boy an inch–or, what was that children’s book? [If You Give a Chocobo a Gyshal Green](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FIf_You_Give_a_Mouse_a_Cookie&t=YWE1M2I2YWQ4MGFiNGI2ODQ5MzExMDgyNjVhZDMwYTJmODZkZjc3MCw2QWFqMmxWWA%3D%3D&b=t%3Ajk_KFzy0oGXr5PGgVojLyg&p=http%3A%2F%2Fskystones.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F167929581083%2Fprompt-drabble-fill-for-flowersforone-who-wanted&m=0) and all that? This simply will not do.

Vaan is heavy at the best of times - weighed down by liquor, Balthier finds he’s even tougher to wrest away from, and even then the churl can’t take a  _bloody hint_ because he says, “If we go back to the Strahl there’s something else I can slobber all over - one that you’ll probably be a lot less upset about.”

That’s it. No. _No_ , he’s not having this, he’s not doing this, because by the _mist_ he wants to have him and he wants to, well, _do_ him, but he cannot. Balthier visibly runs his hand, dried by desert air and gunpowder, down the length of his face. The vision of Vaan between his legs, full lips pouted around his girth, using all the street-grit he can muster to swallow Balthier’s cock whole flashes beneath the curtain of his eyelids and he shudders. “I’ll not be indulging you,” he croaks despite the protesting ache growing beneath his leathers. For all his love of ostentatious foreplay he can't deny Vaan's complete lack of pretense would feel excellent when applied between his open thighs but it seems that vision will be his only company tonight with that same dry hand. What a waste, really. Balthier is not one to hold off on temptations - comes with the job, as it were - but Vaan is no oasis he can simply take a sip from before calling it a day. Vaan is, damnably, a water Balthier knows he would quaff until he drowned, or ran the boy dry - whichever came first. That would do for neither of them.

With some effort, Balthier finds his equilibrium, and puts more distance between himself and the infectious thief too pretty for his own good and too aware of it to boot. Rabanastre is larger than he'd prefer it to be in his current state but he is confident he can weave through the streets and locate the aerodrome well enough, to lock himself in his room and  _latch the door_  because he knows the brat can pick it with ease.

“Balthier c’m–”

“No, Vaan, you impertinent little brat,” Balthier snaps, harsher than he’d intended, but Vaan looks to take little offense and instead wears his trademark Dalmascan pout; one that is fit more for a child forbidden to stay up past their bedtime and not a hormone-high teenage boy who has been told no, he can’t perform fellatio on a sky pirate tonight. “We can take this no further, absolutely not. No.” At this point Balthier realizes he’s saying the words out loud more for his own restraint than Vaan’s, and the fact is pitiful, but Vaan doesn’t need to know that.

The silence between them is thick and awkward. Balthier thinks it is high time to take his belated leave. He moves to go, and Vaan mutters,

“Not now, or not ever?” his voice is softer now, and Balthier really doesn’t have time for talk of futures and feelings. Neither have ever been his strong point. He sighs.

“Good _night_ , Vaan.”

He walks off into the fray of Rabanastre’s nightlife, and Vaan stays behind, soaking in the wake of Balthier’s leave - or maybe he’s just belatedly realizing in his drunken state what just transpired. Either way, when he’s sure he’s alone, Vaan groans into the night. At the very least, he knows someone who’ll want his dick sucked tonight, and that someone should be off his shift in oh, about an hour.

Vaan makes his way back into the Sandsea, and nudges up towards the bar. “Hey Tomaj,” he calls with a nod and a smile, one that shows teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vaan is _If You Give a Mouse a Cookie_ to any attention Balthier gives him p much. Also, I love Vaanmaj. Sorry. They were totally boyfriends before Balthier came along.


	11. Mutiny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vaan gets airsick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Twelve: Mutiny
> 
> Setting: In-game
> 
> Spoilers: Up to Bhujerba
> 
> Established BalVaan: No but hjsfjskjgk they're so cute

As the Strahl crests the azure sky, Vaan’s stomach sinks dangerously low. He swallows thickly, and presses his back against the seat hard enough for his shoulder blades to protest. Basch, Fran and Balthier make idle chatter en route to Bhujerba - and Vaan would happily join them, but it would appear that the adrenaline of this entire venture in the past day has culminated here, in a legendary airship of infamous sky pirates, and he fears if he tries to say one word it will---it will just look really ugly, okay?

So he sits tight, breathing slow and deep to stave off the creep of nausea that threatens to break free when the Strahl hits gentle bumps of turbulence.

It is, of course, Balthier who notices first after some time.

“All right back there, Vaan?” he queries, tilting his head minutely to the side. “For all that show of vim and vigor earlier, you’re awfully quiet.”

Vaan nods stiffly. “Yeah,” he manages to breathe, his voice tight. “Just uh--just thinkin’ about Penelo, and if she’s okay.”

Well. It’s not a lie.

Balthier isn’t buying it though, and turns his head fully to regard Vaan for but a split moment before focusing ahead again. “Grand,” he sighs, “an airsick Dalmascan on my ship. Do try to swallow your bile for the time being - save it for Ba’Gamnan, he's unsightly enough for it to be well-warranted.”

Vaan laughs even as cold sweat coats his body. “Don’t worry, Balthier. If I puke I’ll be sure to use one of your belt pouches as a barf bag.”

There’s a predictable silence that stretches over the cockpit, and then Balthier turns to his co-pilot. “Say Fran,” he begins, light and casual, “if we were to throw him from here right now, do you think anyone would miss him?”

Fran’s ear twitches as she plays into Balthier’s lines, as if giving it genuine thought. “Aye,” she nods, once. “You would, most like.”

Vaan snorts. Basch coughs. Balthier reels back in a performance of disgust. “Mutiny,” Balthier murmurs, and flicks a switch.

The Strahl dips, and Vaan yelps.

“D’you _want_ me to puke or something?”

“At this point, yes,” Balthier admits, “Because I would like to be angry at you about it.”

Bhujerba crests upon the break in the clouds ahead, and Balthier makes changes upon the switchboard to communicate for landing. In his concentration, he misses the look Fran gives Basch, but Vaan does not.

Vaan smiles. There are butterflies in his chest still, but this time it’s for a different reason altogether.


	12. Apprentice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens in Balfonheim stays in Balfonheim. (NSFW)

Vaan arches into the leering press of Balthier’s hands on his hips, tanned skin curving to the heat like a dune to sunlight. The Dalmascan’s wicked tongue is honey-slick with tequila, an echo of their drinking game in the wake of his kiss. Around them both the waves crash against the craggy shore. It’s a pleasant and rhythmic white noise that does well enough to drown out the din of Balfonheim’s nightlife - Balthier never cared much for the rough-and-tumble dialect of the sea pirates nor their raucous taste for  _entertainment._

The tired wood of the tavern’s back-alley wall, battered by years of sea wind, creaks with the force from Balthier’s selfish agenda to drive the boy mad. He licks the wake of sea-salt and lime from Vaan’s pliant, smiling lips, and in his kiss there is one intention and one intention only - wipe that smug grin off the desert chit’s face until he’s spread beneath Balthier, begging.

But if Vaan falls victim to the sky pirate’s whims, he doesn’t show it; merely, Vaan presses back into his mouth and wraps his sinful little thief-arms around his waist like a snake, tempting the waters, challenging the fire coiled in the pit of Balthier’s belly.

“You are no pirate yet,” Balthier snarls, reminding the desert bratling of his place. Despite how many thousands of miles stretch between Vaan and Rabanastre now, he is still an impertinent dune bug, dammit, and Balthier will not have the boy’s filthy hands steer him like the Strahl’s yoke any longer.

“Yet,” Vaan breathes back, nipping hard at Balthier’s lip and tugging enough to draw blood. “Gimme a year and I’ll be playing you and Fran for fools.” Balthier’s laugh is lost in Vaan’s mouth. He wedges his knee between Vaan’s leg, and feels the hardened press, the idle grind against it. 

“That’s quite an imagination you have. Awfully sure of yourself for a petty thief,” he moves from Vaan’s kiss to bite at his neck, equally as rough and unrelenting as the Dalmascan’s attempts before. Vaan only moans, low enough that Balthier can feel the sound beneath his teeth. 

“I already take my liquor better than you–mmn,” Vaan bites his own lip as Balthier sucks hard on the skin to leave a lasting crude mark. The little white mage brat can mutter a Curaga and fix that right away; which is why Balthier continues, trailing a peppered line of blood-bruises down the slope of Vaan’s neck. 

“Tequila is for wenches and whores.” Balthier grabs one of Vaan’s gauntlet-clad wrists, cold in the seaside night, and slams it back against the wall. “Not a pirate’s drink at all.” Even in the shadows of the hall Balthier can see Vaan flutter his too-thick lashes at him, taunting; a reminder that he, at twenty-and-two, still lost a drinking game in the city of pirates to a grinning orphan from the south.

“Tell you what, ‘thier,” Vaan starts, and Balthier wants to drag him into the ocean by his hair if he uses that sweet little nickname one more time, “I’ll buy your bluff if you take me as your apprentice.” Vaan really must be off his face, because Balthier laughs again, loud this time.

“I can think of few pests I’d rather saddle myself with less than I would you,” he snarls, but Vaan still wrests himself from the man’s grip and slides down the rickety wall, where his knees meet the floor for his face to nuzzle the promising bulge of Balthier’s cock. The pirate hisses through his teeth.

“Too late for that,” Vaan grins, rubbing a warm cheek against the leather and taking in a sharp breath through his nostrils. 

May the gods damn tequila.

“This won’t help your plead,” Balthier says, but his hands grip Vaan’s hair tight and rough either way, “Though I certainly won’t deny you a taste of a real pirate, if that’s what you want.” He presses his hips against Vaan’s wandering tongue, feeling the heat of it even through his leathers. The boy looks awfully pretty on his knees, and Balthier would love to shut him up with a mouthful of his shaft now more than ever.

He’s waited this long for it. If there’s one place to indulge in the forbidden it’s Balfonheim.

Vaan’s nimble fingers know the dark, and there’s a growing suspicion beneath the swim of liquor in Balthier’s headspace as Vaan undoes the ties of his trousers with ease. The briny ocean air is cool on his pulsing cock only for a moment before Vaan swallows him whole to taste a different salt altogether.

Balthier will not reward him with a sound, but he leans forward to brace against the fence, watching Vaan work his cock under the glow of muted moonlight. His quiet sigh is lost in the crash of the waves against the stone shoreline. Vaan’s head bobs between Balthier’s legs like a fishing float on the sea, and the pirate rocks back into it until he’s fucking Vaan’s head back into the wall.

“Not bad,” Balthier offers, tugging at Vaan’s hair. The blonde looks up at him, debauched and devilish. “Perhaps you can be taught after all.” Vaan takes the force with no complaint, his throat loose and giving to the cant of Balthier’s hips.

When he comes, all too soon for his liking thanks to tired nerves giving way to Vaan’s wicked tongue, Vaan lets the excess dribble from his chin, always the messy eater. Balthier steps back and tucks his spent dick back in the leathers, and does not miss Vaan licking the remnants of his spill from his fingers as he rises.

“Salty and bitter. You sure you’re a real pirate?” Vaan comments, licking his lips. “No different than anything else I’ve ever had.” Vaan kisses him before Balthier can even reply, and tastes himself on the Dalmascan to find he isn’t lying. Acrid and sharp, Balthier reels away from Vaan, having never met a creature so impishly unbidden.

“You should eat more fruit,” Vaan says, and takes a step back. “Oh. And limes don’t count,” he adds, grinning. With that, he saunters away back towards the manse, and doesn’t look back. 

Balthier spits on the ground before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. In the heart of all things pirate, he watches Vaan leave, and has to wonder who is really outmaneuvering whom here.


	13. Chemistry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For too long had they grown up with their grimy hands against shop windows and bright eyes gleaming for things they could never hold, and now-- well, now if Vaan sees something he knows would be a great gift, he very well buys it, dammit. See chapter notes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Fourteen: Chemistry
> 
> Setting: Post-game, several years. Maybe three or four?
> 
> Spoilers: None
> 
> Established BalVaan: HELL YEAH
> 
> Companion piece to @doctorcid’s [postgame skypirate boyfriend drabble](http://doctorcid.tumblr.com/post/169747672699/a-little-bitbalvaan-drabble) that indulges a bit on our headcanon that Balthier can mix powerful curatives and is an alchemy nerd. We love the sky pirate boyfriends. I had to write a snuggle piece.

Vaan wakes in the dead of night.

Odd, for him to rouse at this hour from sleep - especially in _this_ bed, of all in Ivalice - but it would appear the owner of aforementioned bed is not present beside him where he _should_ be. Vaan blinks the slumber-fog from his bleary eyes, and beneath the excess blankets he can see the glow of a nearby magicite lamp, a soft beacon in the Strahl’s cabin darkness. Though the spot next to Vaan is empty, he can hear Balthier in the room; the man’s movements quiet but nearby nonetheless.

The Dalmascan sky pirate chances a peek over the edge of the duvet to find Balthier standing over his desk. His soft shadow bathes over the polished oak, darkening the layers of maps strewn with compasses, sky jewels, discarded accessories and the like. In his hands, Balthier holds a box, and Vaan recognizes immediately that it is the gift he gave Balthier earlier that day: a custom alchemy kit, ideal for mixing powerful curatives in nothing short of a flourish. Vaan grins, moreso at himself than Balthier. He knew the gift, in all its lavish glory, would be perfect for his ostentatious lover. 

Truth be told, it’s kind of a gift for both of them- the Dalmascan’s knack for white magicks has his palate attuned to every Ether and Elixir ever mixed, and he can say safely that Balthier makes not only the strongest curatives, but the best-tasting, to boot. Even in the dimness of the cabin Vaan can see the shimmer of silver, the glint of  custom engraving Vaan ordered that makes it for Balthier and Balthier only. Just, well, as long as he isn’t mixing Ethers for any _other_ white mage in Ivalice, though that goes without saying. He allows himself a little smile - to catch Balthier in the act deep into the night admiring his gift ignites a giddiness that wakes Vaan from his drowsy state.

However many presents he's thrown at Balthier throughout the years, Vaan has lost track - what matters is this particular investment clearly was a success. Vaan is thrilled Balthier is so taken with it that he would sneak off in the night to further examine the set, though it’s not like he gave the pilot much of a choice to appreciate it initially -much in the fashion of their impassioned yet sporadic reunions, it was a mere quick exchange of gifts before they rather quickly jumped to dinner, followed by _other_  activites shortly after. It hardly left any moment to admire anything in the wake of their hunger for dinner and after, each other.

Across the room, the soft warmth of the magicite lantern kisses the hard edges of Balthier’s noble profile. Vaan watches from his private little vantage point and is struck, again, by the notion that Balthier is the most beautiful hume he’s ever seen.

So he expresses it in the only way he knows how:

“Nerd,” Vaan teases quietly, and his grin twists into a smirk as he watches Balthier startle, though his hands still cradle the box in his hands protectively. “I knew you’d love that as soon as I saw it.” He can’t see Balthier’s reaction clearly in the angle now, but a shift in the light on the man's face suggests he is smiling, close-lipped.

“You hit the mark on this one,” the gunman responds, voice as soft as the lamplight. Vaan shifts a little, reveling in the overstuffed down comforter that is reminiscent, Vaan thinks not for the first time, of sleeping on a cloud. Not that he’s ever slept on one. But being in Balthier’s bed seems close enough.

“I always hit the mark,” Vaan retorts. Balthier runs his hand along the box’s contents; Vaan can imagine the pads of his fingers, dried from winter wind and gunpowder, tracing along the velvet that molds around each custom piece. He preens a little, beneath the duvet. Generosity is a gesture he is more than happy to extend, however loosely his gil has fallen from his pocket as of late; his life of a sky pirate allows the indulgence of such excesses to a point where Penelo, at least, has admonished Vaan on his frivolity. But Vaan pays her no mind. For too long had they grown up with their grimy hands against shop windows and bright eyes gleaming for things they could never hold, and now-- well, now if Vaan sees something he knows would be a great gift, he very well buys it, dammit.

Balthier, at least, never complains at the lavish pampering. Which is well and good, because their time apart spent in all corners of Ivalice has Vaan nearly always thinking of Balthier, and he sees something that reminds him of the man on the daily. 

“Where did you find such a thing?” Balthier asks, and holds the box near the lamp again to admire the polished silver of an alcohol burner. It’s compact, all of it - the kit is designed for travel, quick-fixes, tight spots and a quality finish.

“If I told you, you wouldn’t like it anymore,” Vaan admits from the bed. Balthier snorts.

“I could have ventured a guess at such craftsmanship; what business had you in Archades as of late?”

Vaan yawns and shifts. “A delivery for Tomaj; everyone in the North wants Cactoid liquor and he’s reaping the benefits. Pays well, too. It’s kind of a funny story, actually; remember that gentry from years ago? He gave me a chop for finding him an alchemy apprentice?” Balthier makes a noise of accord, and Vaan continues. “Well, I ran into him on the streets and we caught up. It got me thinking about you, and I thought I’d ask him where to get a nice kit; told him I knew a guy who mixes the best Potions on this side of the Nebra. Turns out the basement of the Magicks Shop is filled with that kinda stuff for curative alchemy and other geeky trinkets.”

Balthier shakes his head as he nestles the alcohol burner back in its velvet-molded encasement. “So thoughtful upon the surface, yet awfully derogatory to the man who hand-muddles mint for your Ethers,” Balthier admonishes, and Vaan blows a raspberry from his side of the room.

“Come back to bed and be a dork tomorrow. You can mix me something special at breakfast before the hunt.”

Balthier snaps the wooden box shut and places it gingerly atop the maps. “Planning to be throttled that bad by the beastie, are you?”

Vaan grins when Balthier rejoins him in the nest of covers and scoops the blonde in his hold immediately.

“Nah, more planning on you to be, and me to fix it. _Vitality before violence, if you like_ ; s’what you said the first day we met.”

Balthier kisses the back-shell of Vaan’s ear, and the Dalmascan can feel Balthier smile against him.

“Vaan, how touching,” he begins tenderly, nuzzling into Vaan’s hair with a yawn. In the darkness, Balthier finds the younger's hand and threads his fingers through Vaan’s. “I never knew you listened to a word I ever said.”

“Shut up,” Vaan laughs under the cloud-softness of the down comforter, but he squeezes Balthier’s hand greedily anyway.

They fall back asleep together for the first time in months; knowing that upon waking they will be the first thing the other sees is a sweet joy that, until now, either man has only found in the sky.


	14. Apprentice (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Balthier watches Vaan sleep he realizes no, this is not an apprentice. But whatever Vaan is, it will do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A...nicer, more wholesome alternative to the... less nice, less wholesome theme of Apprentice. 
> 
> Established BalVaan: No
> 
> Setting: Ingame, late, post-Pharos
> 
> Spoilers: Moderate mention re: Reddas, otherwise no.

With only a little bit of a wince, Vaan pushes himself from the floor of Balthier’s cabin to rise above the scatter of blueprints he’s been pouring over for the better part of three hours. Surprisingly pleasant, how easily Vaan becomes engrossed in soaking up the Strahl’s structure like a sponge - he’s never seen the boy so quiet for so long a time; broken occasionally by a soft-spoken question that Balthier is happy to answer about his ship's workings.

 _I don’t have an apprentice_ , those were some of his last personal words to the now-late Reddas. But the implication of the dynamic is not proving so cumbersome, after all.

For all that he is dull in wit, Vaan has proven to be a quick learner. There is a knack to his eagerness and, coupled together with his vigor, he is admittedly an impressive student. It is not so painful to teach him.

Vaan has grown much in these months and the throb of his presence, once a thorn at Balthier’s side, has ebbed down to a pleasant sort of company. Of course, he’d never tell. It’s simply not his style; and thankfully, Vaan is too enamored with the blueprints to notice.

The Dalmascan appears nonchalant about the fact he’s been sitting on the hard floor of the Strahl for most of the night. Time seems to have flown by and the clock at Balthier’s desk tells of an hour he did not expect. Indeed, it’s time for bed.

From his seat on the mattress, Balthier watches Vaan stretch and crack his back; sounds too old, he thinks, for someone so young. He sees the band of flesh between Vaan’s sash and his vest twist to and fro, hinting at the musclebound figure he’s seen at work on the battlefield. Knowing his tired body will be resting hunched in a hammock slung between two pipes in a storage room Fran’s hoverbike used to sit causes the pilot to feel an odd pang of guilt.

“You’re sure that hammock suffices?” Balthier shouldn’t care. He really shouldn’t, and he knows he shouldn’t. After all, Vaan has yet to complain as well as Penelo. But there’s still some comical tendency to make sure the rag-tag guests of his ship are content and a hammock is hardly proper accommodation.

How very inconvenient to give a damn.

“It’s fine, Balthier,” Vaan says with laugh that does not precede something amusing. “I slept on a crate for a year in Lowtown, 'til Milgeo took me in. And that was on a good night, y’know, when I could find one. I've definitely roughed it once or twice before.” And it’s Vaan’s nonchalance that rubs Balthier the wrong way.

There’s something that doesn’t sit right with him, to know Vaan’s complacency with discomfort stems simply from familiarity with it. He imagines Vaan had a bed, once. Penelo, Ashe, Basch too - none of them have known comfort for years and Balthier curses himself for regretting his Strahl cannot accommodate them all, every last one of these damned uninvited visitors on this damned unbidden misadventure. There simply isn’t room for everyone to have a bed on the compact YPA model, and Vaan and Penelo have given up that privilege for Basch and Ashe’s sake.

The words come out before he has a chance to stop them.

“That doesn’t mean you have to now,” Balthier says quietly. Curse the late hour - as well as his ever-growing fondness for the blonde. Vaan’s mid-way through rubbing his sore rump before he freezes, and turns his head over his shoulder to sleepily eye Balthier.

“What’re you saying?”

Perhaps the boy is just as dull as Balthier once thought.

He pats the bed once at the empty spot next to him. “You may rest here, if you like.”

“But where will you sleep?”

 _Indeed,_ perhaps he should renounce his conclusion Vaan is anything but a naive sandy thing. Balthier sighs. It’s simply too late for this.

“I trust your _illustrious repertory_  of past sleeping accommodations could ease you into the idea of sharing a bed.”

Vaan blinks. “I mean, yeah, it’s just. I didn’t know if you…” he trails off, turning fully now to Balthier; Vaan's eyes are colored with the telltale glaze of exhaustion. His gaze flits to the bed and Balthier can tell the sleepy desert boy wants a proper rest.

Balthier’s only regret now is that he hadn’t offered sooner.   
  
“Come now,” Balthier interrupts Vaan’s waste of words and stands. “You’ve been curled up in that makeshift hammock for nigh on a week. Take the wall-side of the bed - you don’t snore, so consider yourself lucky the offer's there.” Vaan blinks up at Balthier, and rubs his eyes. Balthier would have to have Ba’Gamnan’s sawblade against his throat to admit it, but the sight is adorable. “I’ve some late-night checkups to do with the Strahl before tucking her in for the night. I trust you’re able to do so yourself without trouble?”

Vaan nods once. He’s caved to the idea of a proper mattress beneath his back far too readily. “Yeah. Thanks, Balthier. I promise I won’t snore.”

“See to it,” Balthier says, and leaves Vaan to change into nightclothes as he heads to the cockpit.

Closing down the Strahl - making sure her anchor is deep and her cloaking device is secured - takes about an hour’s time, before Balthier convenes with Fran to make sure all is running smoothly. He bids her goodnight, makes some tea, and heads to his room.

His feet are already dragging by the time he reaches his door. Upon entering his chambers, Balthier finds Vaan curled up and fast asleep against the wall-side of his bed just as told. He's so pleasantly malleable to instructions when he's studied to the point of exhaustion, and it brings the smallest of grins to Balthier's lips. The knobs of Vaan's spine trail down to the sheets pooled about his hips, and he breathes deep and slow and quiet. There’s still a hunch to Vaan’s position, as if he were curled in on himself like a child, and as Balthier disrobes to his nightclothes he feels an urge to run his hands along Vaan’s exposed bronze flesh and ease him from the knot he’s gnarled himself into.

  
Balthier settles on the bed with more care than he knows is necessary, for he’s well-aware Vaan could sleep through a Humbaba Mistant stampede. Vaan predictably does not budge. There’s still ample room for him on the bed to lay and stretch - Vaan truly did hunch himself over to the corner and yet he still slumbers like an infant. Balthier sips his tea and shuts off the main cabin light, leaving only the magicite lantern at his bed aglow. The chamomile on his tongue is calming as he watches the rhythmic rise and fall of Vaan’s shoulders, and again, the desire to touch the Dalmascan runs deep.

With the free hand not holding the mug, Balthier reaches out to graze his touch along the curve of Vaan’s bicep, learning an angle of muscle that has grown with the weight of a sword. He does not stir, and so Balthier widens the width of his fingers to further pet down his shoulder, over his back.

At the first stroke of Balthier's touch along his shoulders, Vaan blooms in his sleep like a desert flower and stirs to stretch from his curled position. He resembles a contented, sun-dazzled cat now, elongated across the modest mattress. There’s a sleepy noise that escapes his throat and Balthier smiles around the rim of his mug. Good; he can’t stand that unsightly hunch Vaan’s adopted from his dagger-stance down to his seated slouch, and now in a bed, of all places. That simply wouldn’t do. Such posture is unbecoming if he wishes to be an apprentice.

Not that he is one.

Not that Balthier has one.

As Balthier watches Vaan sleep he realizes no, this is not an apprentice. But whatever Vaan is, it will do.


	15. Simple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been eight years. (combined prompt from two tumblr asks: "Balthier shows Vaan his favorite dessert spot in Archades" + "Hand holding" ...thanks ChaoticRice and Kass ;3; )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Fifteen: Simple
> 
> Setting: Post-game, two years, Archades. 
> 
> Spoilers: Yes
> 
> Established BalVaan: Yes

It is rather understated, all things considered - and considering all the ostentation of both Balthier and Archades, such modesty does come as a surprise. The building up ahead is a handsome brownstone sandwiched between two modern monoliths; timeless and classic, as though it’s grown from the very cobbled streets before any of these ambitious skyscrapers challenged the height of the clouds.

“That’s it?” Vaan asks, ever-graceful. And really, he has to ask. Balthier has been dragging him by the arm throughout endless twisting footpaths all day to find this place by memory alone on the promise of having  _the best gods-bedamned pastry of your sad little life, Vaan_. He has been expecting something grand, with a line out the door and screaming snot-nosed brats demanding eclairs with their bottled sparkling water, and little cakes that cost more than a week’s worth of food back home. But this is not the case, here. In fact, there’s nary a soul on the street, save for an old man they passed on his front steps half a block back. It’s as though Balthier has led them to his own little secret off the beaten path of Archades, a graceful show of classic northern architecture standing in a city that mercilessly trudges onwards towards the future.

The bakery’s hand-written sign is even mildly presented, painted in well-worn black against weathered cream wood. Its awning, striped with yellow and red, is trimmed on the borders with whimsically scalloped lace. 

“Yes,  _that’s it_. You’ll do well to know that some treasures worth finding oft hide in the most unassuming of places,” Balthier points out as they near the bakery. “Let this be yet another valuable lesson I bestow unto you, free of charge.”

Vaan rolls his eyes. “Nothing’s ever free from you,” he counters, and nearly stumbles over a wayward cobblestone that juts from the ground. Balthier doesn’t bother helping him find his balance as he heads towards the front door with an eager, excited haste Vaan doesn’t miss. It pries a grin from his lips and, with tired feet, he follows the pilot.

The street here is quieter. Odd, it is; Archades is so…loud. Loud with mummers juggling and singing, loud with gossip, loud with the whir of aircabs and the telltale clang of Imperial metal that once plagued Rabanstre’s streets. But here, in the muted shadows of midday, this private lane feels frozen in time. Even the sunlight is softer here, and paints the red city in a russet glow. 

As Vaan nears the front door, he nearly stops in his tracks. By  _Mateus_  the redolence of fresh-baked bread and sugar is so powerful he halts, as though he were hit by Stop magicks. It smells–wonderful. Amazing. 

“I’m not waiting for your dumbstruck little self,” Balthier calls over his shoulder as Vaan stands, frozen before the quaint bakery’s door. “And when I’ve bought all the Jaffa Cakes and Brandy Snaps I’m not sharing any of them with you.”

And with that, the Leading Man makes his entrance in a pleasant twinkled chime of bells above the door as he heads into the bakery. Vaan smiles, knowing that’s a complete lie, but follows him in anyway.

The scent of baked goods surrounds him and Vaan finds the inside of the bakery just as quaint as the outside. It’s so…oddly simple, with a glass case covering an assortment of treats ranging from chocolate truffles to fruit tarts, and everything in between. Behind the counter, baskets of bread hang from the wall, and are nearly empty with the late-day hour. The old woman who emerges from the back corner greets them with a wave, her eyes narrowed into little slits from a smile that could only come from many years of loving her life and her job.

“Madame Clara,” Balthier greets, as he straightens himself from where he was eyeing a row of pastries. It’s the sudden softness of his voice that rips Vaan from his reverie, and he looks to Balthier. “It’s been a while. Archades moves ever-forward as trends come and go; it's good to see that through it all, you're still here.”

There's a moment where the woman halts and eyes Balthier, blinking her beady eyes at him. It appears she does not notice Vaan at all. And then, after a pause, she softens.

“Ffamran,” she breathes, and Vaan tries not to gawk. He eyes Balthier nervously, eyes the surroundings - but no one is inside save for them, and Balthier does not seem bothered by the name from her lips. “I can’t believe it’s you.”

Balthier does not stumble from the accuracy of her lethal recognition. In fact, Vaan is astounded by the warmth in Balthier's smile plain on his face. “Been a while, has it? Afraid you missed a few things.”

“Oh, but I’ve heard it all. These ears still work, you know. And these streets, they still talk.” 

Balthier hums thoughtfully. “Now, more than ever, it seems. Then I do hope you’ll pardon my correction; it’s Balthier now.”

The old woman - Madame Clara, Vaan supposes - takes another long look at Balthier. Vaan watches her, and watches Balthier in turn, and whatever brief quiet exchange the two Archadians are having, well--the blunt southern Dalmascan can’t be assed to translate. But the woman breaks the silence with a noise of approval, and nods.

“Balthier.” She wears the name on her tongue, once. “A good name, that.” And that’s all she says. She’s smart, Vaan will give her that. She doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t pry further, doesn’t mock. Merely, she turns her attention to Vaan, and he grins when her beady eyes land on him. “And who is this handsome young man?”

“I told you,” Balthier drawls, “it’s Balthier.”

Vaan rolls his eyes. “I’m Vaan,” he offers, nudging Balthier in the side. 

“Vaan. I don’t know how you stand this one. He’s as mischievous as I remember, even eight years later.”

Vaan turns to smirk at Balthier but finds himself frozen as he catches sight of the pirate’s face again. He seems taken aback, finally. Balthier blinks in surprise as realization settles in and writes a quiet look of shock on his face. “It really has been eight years, hasn’t it.”

“I’ve seen many a face over the decades of standing at this counter, ah, but don’t think I could ever forget one as handsome as yours.”

“Please,” Vaan rolls his eyes, “don’t encourage him. It'll make him worse than he already is.”

“Too late for that,” Balthier counters, and the brief reprieve that snagged his expression into something Vaan could not read fades back into his cocksure grin. “If your memory is as good as you say, then tell me, what’s my favorite of yours? Don’t fool me; I know you still sell it. I didn’t drag Vaan all this way to not leave with a few.”

Madame Clara leaves the counter to nearly float with a timeless grace to the array of treats behind the glass, and without thinking twice, she plucks a small chocolate tart from a tray and places it on the wax paper. 

“You test my patience, young man, expecting I’d have trouble remembering what you used to come in every day for since you were a child.”

Vaan wants to ask how Balthier didn’t became  _fat little Ffamran_  by doing that, but figures he’ll ask later. Merely, he smiles when Balthier’s laugh fills the bakery with a warm mirth that matches the sweet waft of sugar in the air.

“So you do remember; if only Vaan here could have a memory as sharp as yours, I don’t think I’d have half as much trouble teaching him to fly a dual-winged YPA.”

“Hey–” Vaan starts, brows furrowing, but the old woman tuts the pirate.

“Surely,” she starts, “he must be good for something, if at least that comely southern face.”

Balthier meets Vaan’s eyes and winks, though Vaan is still wearing his trademark Dalmascan pout. “Oh, good for a couple things, perhaps,” he relents.

Vaan huffs. That’ll do for now, but he’s still taking one of his tarts later.

They stay and chat for a little while longer, and Vaan tones it out as he crouches to press his fingers against the glass like a child to oggle over the sheer volume of treats this woman manages to make. There are eclairs, and several different kinds of cakes, cookies the size of his face, and fruit tarts that would make Penelo weep with joy. Vaan isn’t even one for sweets himself but he’s eyeing a particularly tasty looking little lemon pie when Balthier sifts through his coinpurse for some gil and rambles off his order that seems to be ten miles long. 

“Oh, and a Mandragora tart, if you would. I’ve a dear friend waiting back at the ship who would relish in having one.”

The old woman chuckles as she places one after the other after the other of treats into a box, before grabbing another. “You’re going to have me close early today, buying out my whole shop.”

“Yes, well, I’ve a few years of catching up to do, and I may have spent the better part of the day rattling to Vaan how much I’ve missed your confections. Best to keep the pantry stocked.”

“Please, with the way you snarf pastries?” Vaan jests. “Those’ll be gone by morning.”

The woman laughs, though Balthier only waves him off, and places the gil on the counter. It’s a lot. More than necessary. But Balthier does not seem bothered by the excess payment, and insists Madame Clara take it. 

“Just consider it a deposit for a future visit,” Balthier urges when she puts up a fuss at the contribution. She huffs, and scrapes the gil into her hands. 

“Very well, Ffa– _Balthier._  Very well. But you do realize that means you’ll have to visit.”

“He will,” Vaan chimes. “My best friend Penelo lives here now, and I visit her a lot, which means ‘thier is here a lot too. We’ll be back.”

In the late-day sun slanting through the bakery’s windows, Vaan sees her eyes are flecked with green and she looks into his own. The manner in which she regards him is unlike any way Vaan is used to being acknowledged by anyone in this city. 

“I like this one,” she says to Balthier simply, while still holding Vaan’s gaze; Simple, and sweet, like everything in her shop, and everything about this secret little corner. “See to it for me, then, Vaan. Will you?”

“Promise,” Vaan says, punctuating it with a fervent nod.

When they bid their farewells, the woman comes around the counter, and embraces Balthier. He dwarfs her; the height difference reminds Vaan of Penelo and Fran, and it’s almost comical. Vaan is poised at the door when he sees him hold her back–briefly, with one arm, but a hug nonetheless. “Fly safe,” she urges, and Balthier chuckles.

“I’m afraid I can’t promise that. Comes with the job, as it were; all we can promise is, at least, a safe landing. That is, if I'm flying.”

Vaan nudges him for the second time that hour - this time, harder than the last. "You'll eat those words, Balthier," Vaan threatens through the wall of grit teeth. But Balthier is already ahead with a bag of pastries in his hand, smirking.

"I'll be eating something, that's for certain. Whether it's my words or this tart depends on if you want me to leave you stranded here in Archades without a Chop to your name."

The paper bag Balthier holds looks heavy with pastries, and as they walk in the late-summer day bathing the lane in gilded dusk, their steps fall in time together.

“Madame Clara, huh? She was nice,” Vaan comments as they head back up the incline towards the main footpath. Out on the streets again and it feels like they’ve stepped from a portal that held fast to them for but a moment; a pleasant, odd little haven in the Empire, frozen in time.  But when Vaan turns to Balthier, the man has an unreadable expression on his face, something akin to a joy with a wistful sort of twist. 

“A face of the past not so harsh on the eyes,” Balthier breathes in an almost-whisper. He’s staring off into the distance, before he catches Vaan’s eye. With his free hand, he grabs Vaan’s. His grip is firm but gentle, and warms Vaan in a way the sun cannot. Here on this secret little avenue, their meshed shadows stretch long on the cobbled streets and Vaan swings their hands to and fro as they amble towards the city centre.

“I didn’t know Fran liked Mandragora pies,” the Dalmascan comments, nearly tripping again on a wayward cobblestone.

“She doesn’t,” Balthier responds simply. “I do.”

Vaan laughs. “Gross. Is there any pastry we bought you  _won’t_  eat?”

The pirate pretends to think before eyeing Vaan. “No, which would leave you plum empty-handed, wouldn’t it.”

The smile on Vaan’s face doesn’t fade, and he squeezes Balthier’s hand in his. “Nah,” he says, and Vaan’s voice is as soft as the dust motes floating lazily in the ancient street. “I think I’ve got something good right here.”


	16. Partners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Penelo and Vaan play a pirate for a fool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Sixteen: Partners
> 
> Setting: In-game, Balfonheim
> 
> Spoilers: None
> 
> Established BalVaan: Kinda. They're definitely fucking at least.

Over the array of cards fanned in her hands, Penelo stares at the sky pirate across from her. Balthier is smirking that stupid sky-pirate smirk of his that, this late into their journey, has become stale on Penelo; yes, even  _Penelo_ , who once gazed starry-eyed at him while clutching his handkerchief in her hand like a pining little fishwife. He’s not so charming, now.

The manse’s large, round table between them is well-worn from sea winds that blow through the open-air lounge and atop it lies gil and chips, strewn haphazardly in their game.

“Having a spot of trouble, are we, dear?” Balthier nearly coos from his vantage point, lounged sideways across the chair. The cards sit casually in the cradle of his insouciant grip as he rests his hand on his bent knee. With the mid-day sun streaming through the open window behind him, his hair is aglow and she’s certain he knows it.

Penelo bites back the urge to roll her eyes. They’ve traveled too long together for his sultry ways to still pry at her girlish whims. If anything, he’s just annoying. She allows herself a smirk here, in the town of pirates; one she’s learned from Vaan, no doubt, but with her own little twinkled flair that makes the expression solely Penelo’s. With half-lidded eyes, she glances again at the cards, and bites her lip.

“Just give me a minute,” she urges with faux concentration as she runs her finger along the brim of cards. For the sake of performance, she even flicks a worried gaze to the table, before furrowing her brow back at the cards. 

“At your leisure, my fair maiden, but don’t blame me if I fall asleep.”

Penelo does not deign to honor him with a response.

 _Hurry up, Vaan,_ she thinks. _I’m running out of time._

Her cards don’t look good. She’ll surely lose, and that normally wouldn’t pry at her so much if it weren’t for the manner of her opponent. There’s something so tempting about putting Balthier straight on his ass in the Pirate King’s manse; a streak of competitiveness she’s learned from being born as the youngest (and only) woman in a family of all men. It brings her back to those years, now, to be pitted against a smug arse that writes her off as a plain-faced Southern girl.

She’ll show him that all is not fair in playing with a  _fair maiden_.

Balthier seems perfectly content to soak up the sun like a giant, stupid, beautiful cat while Penelo pretends to pick her cards; his head rests on the generous back of the velvet chair as if he hasn’t a care in the world. He does not even stir when he surely hears the telltale clunk of Vaan’s armored shoes making their approach against the hardwood floor.

“What’d I miss?” Vaan asks as he approaches Balthier’s chair.

“Ah, Vaan,” Balthier murmurs, though he does not bother to crack an eye open at him. “Just in time. You’re about to witness another stunning win on my end, adding further as it were to my handsome reputation of being a ruthless and cutthroat sky pirate. Penelo may soon be needing your shoulder and my handkerchief again to dry her tears.”

“Wow,” Vaan intones drily, swiping Balthier’s half-empty ale bottle to take a hearty swig from. Penelo brings her cards over her mouth to hide her grin, and from behind Balthier’s chair, Vaan winks at her.  “You’re so cool, Balthier.”

If the pirate notices Vaan has taken his ale, he does not care enough to make a fuss about it. Instead, he continues to tilt his head back and enjoy the afternoon light, Balthier’s oblivious chuckle fills the warm air with a charming mirth, and Penelo tries to hide her snort. “Flattery will get you every–”

It’s orchestrated perfectly well, a heist bred from two Dalmascan orphans, seamless in their bond: Penelo watches Vaan swoop down from behind the chair and capture Balthier’s mouth in a long, deep and (as far as Penelo is concerned) sloppy kiss. She moves lightning fast as Balthier’s strangled noise crawls from his throat into Vaan’s tongue, probably, (gross); with a few quick shifts of her body and a swipe of her hands, she’s switched the cards to the one hidden beneath the table. Normally she wouldn’t go out of her way to see those two going at each other like two coeurls in heat, but here she makes an exception.

It buys her a moment, at least, and that's all she needs. The card is safely nestled in her little fingers by the time Balthier wrenches away from Vaan’s mouth with a gasp.

She allows herself a giggle here, matching Vaan’s laugh, as Balthier wipes his mouth unceremoniously with the back of his hand.

“You taste like fried Ichthon,” Balthier sputters with obvious distaste, before shifting from his once relaxed posture to grab his ale and quaff it long.

“That was lunch,” Vaan quips unhelpfully as he sides with Penelo on her side of the table. “Anyway, don’t let me interrupt. Carry on.”

Balthier’s eyes narrow into slits, and he juts his head at Penelo. “Well, you heard the brat. Lay your hand so that I may spend my winnings on mint paste to purge myself of  _that_.”

“Of course,” Penelo chimes, her voice as light and airy as the gulls taking flight on the easterly winds outside. She lays her card on the table with a graceful flick of the wrist, and relishes in Balthier’s gape matched with Vaan’s boyish chuckle. 

“Damn, Balthier,” Vaan laughs, and finally Penelo allows herself a full-blown smirk as the winning card mocks him upon the table, “with all that fish-mouthing, you’d make a great sea pirate.”

Penelo crosses her arms, and tilts her head at Balthier. “I believe that means I win,” she muses, and Vaan is still snickering behind her. “While you collect yourself, I’ll be collecting your gil.”

Balthier closes his unsightly gape slowly, and eyes them both. “What just happened, you conspiring pair of fine-faced little chits?”

The Dalmascans blink owlishly at Balthier. “Nothing,” they say in perfect synch; Penelo can imagine Vaan batting his too-long lashes at Balthier as he says it, like a cheap courtesan. Yet somehow, it still works every time. Pathetic, really; it was almost too easy to play him for a fool. She’ll have to give Vaan a bit more credit, then. It actually worked.

“Please,” Balthier nearly spits. “That sentiment was practically harmonized. You expect me to buy that?"

Penelo tuts at the pirate once. "From what I can see Balthier, after this you won't be buying much of anything."

This, of course, prompts Vaan to laugh an ugly laugh. "Not anytime soon, at least," he adds. Balthier does not look amused.

"Go on, then, take your winnings. I’ve business to attend to with Fran and this has wasted enough of my time.”

With a swift arc of her arm, Penelo swipes the betting pile into her hand, and stands. “Well, Balthier - that was a fine game, if I do say so myself. Better luck next time.”

Balthier waves his hand away at them as though they were gnats. "Off with you."

Vaan slings his arm around Penelo’s shoulders as they walk out of the lounge together; he’s still snickering, and by the time they’re out in the streets under the sun, they both erupt in a peal of laughter.  

“I was afraid you weren’t going to make it,” Penelo smirks. Vaan bumps her with his hip.

“Nah,” he replies. “I was waiting around the corner for the right moment.”

“He’s gonna kill you when he finds out that’s why you kissed him.”

Vaan shrugs. “Worth it.”

Penelo's pockets are heavy with gil and it jingles with her laughter over the ocean's distant ebb and flow.

“Hey partner," Vaan begins again, "since I _did_ help you win that, how about treating me to a last meal?”  

Penelo watches the casual amble of their shadows, side by side in the Balfonheim sun, and smiles as the word echoes in her head. _Partner_. It has a good ring to it, as ridiculous as their first heist was. If only they could all be so easy. “Oysters and ale at The Whitecap?”

“Duh,” Vaan nudges her gently, and together they head off in the heart of all things pirate.


	17. Needles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A thousand needles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Seventeen: Needles
> 
> Setting: In-game, the Strahl
> 
> Spoilers: None
> 
> Established BalVaan: Yes, the beginnings of it.

“All things considered, you do make a rather fetching cactoid.”

Vaan’s face contorts to something as sour as serpentwyne, and he braces himself when Balthier presses the tweezers against the tender, rent flesh of his arm. 

“Just get it over with,” he grits out through his teeth.

Balthier cannot contain his incredulous laughter, assessing the damage before him. Vaan sulks on his cabin bed like a petulant child, sporting innumerable needles from his arm all the way up his neck. It looks...awfully painful, and he doesn’t envy the boy a bit as he sits there, rigid and mussed and  _drinking all his damn whiskey._

“Easier said than done.” Balthier pulls the first of many cactoid quills from Vaan’s arm. “They certainly did a number on you, didn’t they.”

“A thousand, Balthier. The number’s a thousand.”

The sky pirate’s brows raise slightly.

“I always speculated that was just an expression.”

He drops the quill into the bowl on the bedside table, and goes in for the second of what will be many pluckings. Vaan hisses in pain as the pointed edge of the tweezer grazes pinkened flesh, inflamed and angry, and with no shortage of gratitude that he wasn’t on the other end of that wretched thing’s wrath, Balthier presses to ease it out. 

“I wasn’t counting,” Vaan seethes lowly, and takes another swig from the flask to ease the pain. His breath already reeks of whiskey, but at least by the end of it, he’ll be drunk enough to sleep. Moreso it’s just annoying that it’s his  _good_  whiskey (though he’d be quick to say he only  _has_  good whiskey), and Vaan is none the wiser to appreciate it. Balthier speculates he could have given the boy engine oil and he’d drink it with the same lack of regard.

"Well, we certainly have the time for it now." With a steady hand, Balthier works at the needles peppering Vaan’s arm. Some are larger, protruding from the twitching muscle in his bicep, while others are smaller, more transparent - sneaky little bastards that sift right below that first layer of flesh. He can feel Vaan tense like a rabid Worgen beneath the unpleasant ministrations, and Balthier sighs.

“This may take a while,” he adds a bit uselessly. “You’re lucky I’ve nowhere to be today.”

Vaan doesn’t say anything, but Balthier can nearly feel the blonde roll those eyes at him as he tweezes away at spine after spine. Some are bloodier than others, and when he clears out a patch of skin - not much, barely an inch - he presses the antiseptic rag to Vaan’s arm. The Dalmascan jolts, hisses again, and brings the flask to his mouth like a pacifier to a wailing infant. Balthier can feel the flesh burning beneath the cloth, and does not envy his apprentice in the slightest.

“What exactly did you do to provoke the ire of the ever-docile cactoids, Vaan?” he queries, never not-baffled at Vaan’s tendency to piss off everything he comes in contact with. 

“Nothing,” he slurs, voice rasped with pain and libation alike. Balthier silently counts down from five, and waits for Vaan to admit the truth. He makes it to two before, “ _Fine_ \--I wanted to test out this new fire spell.”

Balthier hums thoughtfully, yanking another out with no shortage of growing satisfaction. It’s proven to be strangely meditative. “And how did that work out for you, I wonder?”

“Not so hot,” Vaan deadpans. At least he still has his humor intact, though his pride is another story, buried somewhere in the Estersand underneath one irate cactoid dancing upon its grave. 

“You know,” Balthier says after most of the bowl’s bottom surface is covered in thin spines yet he looks barely a fraction better for it, “I should really charge you for this. A Gil a Quill.”

Vaan snorts. “Shut up, Balthier.”

“What?” he blinks, faux-innocent as he plucks another - maybe a bit too hard, for that disrespect, “does my proposition needle you?”

But there’s still a long way to go, and Balthier shifts on the stool he dragged up next to the bed. “Look at me, plucking away at you like some bed-nurse. The least you could do is hold still, dammit.”

“It hurts,” Vaan seethes. A thin layer of sweat covers his brow and Balthier feels a touch sorry for the fool. It must smart like the devil.

“Be glad it was your arm and not your rear,” Balthier tries another attempt at humor, "Though the view would have been a touch nicer.”

Vaan groans, and takes another swig from the flask, only to find it regrettably empty. “You’re out of whiskey,” he pouts, and Balthier clucks his tongue.

“No,  _you’re_  out of whiskey,” he corrects, and Vaan groans, fisting his hand into the sheets. He sits there, tense as a bowstring, throat tightened with suppressed whimpers. 

The only sound in the Strahl’s cabin is that of quills hitting the bowl and Vaan’s sharp breathing. Balthier’s looks at Vaan to find his brow furrowed and eyes screwed shut, and the pilot’s mouth quirks with some brand of sympathy - even if he is a damn fool, Vaan is _his_ damn fool, and he’ll not have the boy sulking around his ship, sore and sour-faced. There is nothing more unsightly than a pouting Dalmascan, he’s found with the combined company of Vaan, Penelo, and Ashe. 

“Tell you what,” Balthier starts after a while, pressing another antiseptic rag to Vaan’s newly-purged flesh. Vaan grunts at the sting, shuddering in pain below his touch. “When this is all said and done, how about I give you a lesson,” he promises out of nowhere, his own generosity startling him. But Vaan freezes, and lifts his gaze to the pirate - and Balthier notes a glaze over them, whether from tears or whiskey, he cannot tell. But the wonder is as plain as day, the prospect of flight nearly causing him to smile despite the discomfort, and that speaks volumes.

“Really?” Vaan asks, before hiccuping once. Balthier rolls his eyes.

“When you’re sober, that is. Now  _sit tight_ , would you? I’d like to get through with this before I’m grey.”

And Balthier isn’t sure when, exactly, he became prone to the whims of a Dalmascan - to offer his patience, his whiskey and his mentorship without even having been asked - but he can’t say he’s entirely displeased with it all the same.


	18. Bedtime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Balthier tells Vaan a bedtime story.

It’s well past midnight when a knock on his cabin door has Balthier pausing from his reading to quirk his brow across the room.

“Yes?” he intones, though it is no mystery who it is. Without waiting for permission to enter, Vaan makes himself perfectly at home by waltzing right in. It's honestly a surprise he even knocked.

“I can’t sleep,” the Dalmascan announces to Balthier, who remains on his bed with a book in his lap. His arched brow has not budged, and shows no signs of doing so as Vaan shuts the door behind him and ambles further inside.

“And that’s my problem how, exactly?” It’s too damn late to entertain desert brats, but as Vaan approaches, he eyes the empty side of his bed with a blatancy bordering obnoxious, and Balthier relents - with a sigh he pats the gap, and as if on cue Vaan burrows into his blankets like a pleased sandbug.

“Tell me a sky pirate story,” he demands, practically nudging the book off the bed when he hooks a leg over Balthier. The pirate snaps the novel shut, and puts a contemplative finger to his lips.

“Very well,” he says simply, and Vaan lifts his head from the pillow to stare at him, ever starry-eyed and eager at his agreeability. “Once upon a time there was a tired sky pirate who was never allowed a moment’s rest because an annoying southern boy was always clamoring for his attention at all odd hours of the night.”

But at this, Vaan only yawns, and nuzzles deeper into the pillow - Balthier’s favorite pillow, as it were, and rubbing his round little nose right into it. “That sucks,” he muffles, his voice deadpan from the plushy down cushion. “What’d he do about it?”

“He pushed him out the hatch, ne’er to be seen again.” There’s a dreaminess to Balthier’s voice as he entertains the thought. Vaan nudges him with his leg, still peering up at him from his buried vantage point.

“That’s messed up, Balthier.”

But Balthier only shrugs in his best pantomime of innocence he can muster at well-past midnight.

“You wanted a story, you got one.”

“D'you have another one?” Vaan prods. “Maybe one that doesn’t suck?”

“I’m afraid that’s all the stories I have,” Balthier laments with a sigh of utmost regret, gesturing Vaan’s leg off him with a swat of his hand. “ Now - if that’s all, why don’t you head off to bed?”

“Way ahead of you,” Vaan yawns again as he burrows further down into the comforter. 

“Only for tonight.” Balthier’s warning at this point is hollow. Vaan can see right through it, as the agreeable noise he makes from his manmade nest is suspiciously sarcastic.

And then, blessedly, he shuts up. Balthier plucks his book from the bed to page through again, and ignores how bothered he is by how unbothered he is with Vaan's presence curled next to him. It should be a burden. It should be an annoyance. Instead, it's just Vaan, quiet and sleepy and there, whether or not he's invited. Balthier's eyes flit to the Lump Named Vaan next to him that is becoming increasingly a familiar and insistent little thing, and wonders how he can breathe while burrowed under all that down.

“Hey Balthier?” Vaan says a few moments later, voice muffled by the sheets. “You’d never throw me out the hatch, right?”

Balthier hums thoughtfully. “Darling vaan,” he tuts, indulging in a smirk, “It is best not to ask questions you don’t want the answer to.”

And then he pushes the chit off the bed. Though Vaan takes the covers with him in his tumble, it’s worth the lark.


	19. Pretense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was taught to believe that two pirates could never be after the same thing and have it end well.
> 
> He was taught by the same man that there is but one exception.

“There are worse people to be seen hanging off the arm of; if anything, you should be grateful. I’ve probably increased your net worth by tenfold simply by walking alongside you.”

Vaan bristles as they exit the Archades aerodrome. The sun swaths them both in warmth like a spotlight as it glimmers off the russet monoliths surrounding them.

“Spoken like a true Archadian,” Vaan grits through his teeth, though low enough for only Balthier to hear it. “The sooner we get this over with, the better.”

Infuriatingly enough, Balthier only tosses his head back and laughs long, as though Vaan has said something truly funny. Only he would know otherwise, as the pirate's hand holding his squeezes-- _hard_.

“You are a _gem_ , darling,” Balthier makes a point to say loudly as they pass a gaping gentryman, who has stopped his amble to gawk at them strolling through Tsenoble like springtime lovers. The gentry despise same-sex relations, despite the legality of them, and to wear it openly in the middle of the day invites all sorts of people to openly stare.  Over the sound of aircabs whirring, Vaan swears he hears someone mumble Balthier’s birthname incredulously– _is that Ffamran? Who is that Dalmascan boy he’s with?_

It is then that Vaan realizes...it has only just begun. He bites back the urge to groan, and moves to lean away from Balthier, but the pirate is having none of it; he simply tugs Vaan closer to him as they walk, snaking an arm around his waist to tether him to the man's hip. It does nothing to quell the butterflies in the Dalmascan’s stomach.

Fate would have it the only newsworthy ruse that could rival that of Larsa Solidor’s grossly rumoured love scandal with Ambassador Penelo would be the Progidal Bunansa son making his return to his homeland with a Dalmascan man on his arm.

Fate would also have it that _he'd_ be that Dalmascan.

Part of Vaan wants to be grateful; he’s only been wanting this exact thing from Balthier since he was seventeen years old. Now at twenty-and-two, the fantasy has far from faded, but it only adds insult to injury that his dream comes true merely for a front-page headline.

The reality twists and gnarls again at him.

The things he does for Penelo…she owes him big time after this, if he’s still alive to guilt her for it once his heart is _ripped out of his chest and stomped on in a merry waltz all over the upper echelons of Archades._

Not that he's being dramatic or anything.

When Penelo had come to them both nearly in tears after an infamous Archadian tabloid published a scathing and grossly exaggerated tale of her and Larsa (" **DALMASCAN HARLOT SEDUCES YOUNG LORD LARSA, BRONZED COUGAR DRESSED IN AMBASSADOR'S CLOTHING** " he believes it said), it threatened her very position as an agent in this still-new peace. The only way to one-up that, and quickly, was to cause a stir themselves...one that Balthier seemed too giddy to indulge in. 

Now, Vaan finds himself regretting his agreement to such a hoax.

“Why couldn’t Fran be here instead?” Vaan mutters under his breath. Balthier waves at a random gaping passerby while tugging Vaan closer and murmurs back through his smile,

“Because it would come as a surprise to absolutely no one. We’ve only been fighting off rumours of our dalliance for the better part of a decade, and with it, our wanted posters plastered all over Ivalice. The public eye is rather used to us by now.”

Balthier suddenly pauses in the midst of the square. Paces away, a mummer gathers a crowd, though he does not hold their attention nearly as raptly as the two sky pirates do simply by existing. The gathering of people are quick to eye them both instead.

The scrutiny is both strange and familiar. He feels seventeen again, grimy and still wary of the Empire, as noblemen curled their lips at him simply for being Dalmascan.

"You, on the other hand..."

Gently, as though he were a sparrow, Balthier perches his finger beneath Vaan’s chin to direct his gaze upwards. Their eyes meet, and Vaan _really_ feels seventeen again; hot and breathless before Balthier's gaze that always seems to know too much and give away nothing at all.

“–are quite an exotic spectacle. Partnered with me, and no one will be able to look away.”

And then Balthier leans down, gentle and slow, to cover his mouth with Vaan’s in a kiss out of a dream.

Beneath the ringing in Vaan’s ears that erupts as soon as Balthier’s lips land on his, he can distantly hear the gasps of the noblemen, the missus, the children. It only fuels Balthier’s kiss further and he deepens it, with a tongue that wrenches a gasp from Vaan’s nose, and he is caught between bugging his eyes out of his head and slipping them shut in a strange incredulous ecstasy.

For the sake of Penelo - and the sake of seventeen year old Vaan who kept himself up at night wishing for exactly this - he goes with the latter, and with a slight tremble of his jaw, he returns the kiss.

They remain like that for a few blissful moments. Beneath the lids of his eyes Vaan can feel Balthier’s smile against his lips. Beneath the lids of his eyes, Vaan pretends this is more than just a ruse. Beneath the lids of his eyes, it’s only the sun, and Balthier, and their mouths against each other.

When they part, he opens his eyes in bewilderment and meets the pirate’s gaze - and in it he can see something stirring there, something that speaks of more than just pretense. That, or it is just sunlight dancing in his eyes.

–

Later that night, locked away in his own inn room, Vaan hears a crisp knock on his door.

“Open up–” Balthier says cheerfully, “we’re to celebrate a job well done.”

Vaan cracks open the door to peer outside. Balthier stands there, casually comfortable without his gilded vest, and his shirt is undone by several buttons. In one hand he cradles two champagne flutes; the other, a bottle. Tucked under his arm is a newspaper.

“What d’you mean?” Vaan asks tiredly, and he tries not to look at Balthier’s honey-caramel lips when he grins, but he finds he cannot help it.

“If you’d move and let me in,” Balthier urges, nudging Vaan aside to nose into his room, “I’ll show you.”

The newspaper slaps onto the bed, and Vaan peeks down at it. Written in bold on the front page:

 

> **ESTRANGED PRODIGAL BUNANSA SON RETURNS TO THE COOP TO FLAUNT EXOTIC DALMASCAN CABIN-BOY AS HIS LOVER, ENGAGES IN FOREPLAY IN BROAD DAYLIGHT**

Vaan picks up the newspaper in disbelief. Of all the things to call him… “ _Cabin boy_?”

Balthier is already pouring the champagne and laughing. 

“Don’t be so sour,” he says in between his chortles. He hands the champagne flute to Vaan, who snatches it with a scowl. In the glass it bubbles and glistens and Vaan sees then that there’s gold leaf speckled in it. “We got what we wanted, didn’t we? And now, dear Penelo is old news. We’ve saved the day.”

Vaan throws the paper across the room and sits on the bed, nursing the champagne. It tastes divine and the lightness of it seems to ebb away his dark mood, despite the fact Balthier’s kiss still lingers on his lips and likely will sear itself into his heart for the rest of his life.

Not that he's being dramatic or anything.

“Didn’t realize you were into charity work,” Vaan mutters from the edge of the bed.

“Oh, but I do make exceptions whenever I can to cause a stir in this city.” Balthier is chuckling again. “It really doesn’t get old.”

“Great,” Vaan shoots back after he’s drained his glass too quickly. If he sounds transparent, he hardly cares. “Glad you had fun.”

When Balthier doesn’t make a move to refill his glass, Vaan chances a look at him, only to find the Archadian studying him in a different light altogether. The expression he’s wearing is not so different than one he wore earlier, under the false pretense of being Vaan’s lover, enamoured in the late-spring sun.

“Did you?” he asks, in such a way that makes Vaan’s throat tighten. He looks away.

“It was alright,” the Dalmascan offers, barely above a murmur. If by alright he meant absolutely euphoric in ways no heist could ever compare. If by alright he meant a half-decade’s dream come true.

If by alright he meant the worst thing to ever happen to him.

He slouches, a wilted, prickly flower. How annoying to have a flight of fancy birthed five years ago still be so eager to take off into the sky at the slightest tease.

_It wasn’t even a real kiss._

“Only alright?”

“Yeah.” Dismissive as he can muster. He swallows dryly. “Can you pour me more of that?”

“Certainly,” Balthier says.

When Balthier sits next to him on the bed unprompted, Vaan isn’t looking at the empty glass anymore. He’s looking up (always up, he never did surpass his mentor in height, never will) at Balthier, whose eyes don’t leave his, a lingering threat and a promise all the same within them like before, where in the sunlight that glint seemed only like a mirage.

Now, there is no denying it wasn't.

“Just say when.”

The tension between them is palpable, smoldering. Balthier’s coeurl gaze is sharp and in it births a desire so strong Vaan’s pirate heart cannot keep it contained. Distantly over the ringing in his ears that has returned, Vaan registers the overflow of champagne in his glass as Balthier continues to pour freely, ever the prodigal son. It dribbles over his fingers and to the floor, and suddenly, the pirate’s lips are on his ear.

“Say when,” he urges again, and Vaan can feel it, Balthier's serpent-grin against his flesh. Vaan shudders, and says the word - lets it fall from his lips like rain despite the fact he's been parched for this for years.

“Now.”

The glass drops from his hands to the carpeted floor, and their mouths are on each other again, like before. Except this time, there is no baited audience. This time, there is no jeopardized honor of a best friend to outdo in a crass hoax. This time, it’s only him, and it’s only Balthier, and he knows all at once that it’s real.

Vaan’s hands are coated in champagne and flecked with gold as he cards them through Balthier’s hair, and behind closed doors they come to terms with the strangeness that two pirates can be after the same thing, and be more than pleased by the outcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the tumblr prompt, "Fake Dating".
> 
> Partially inspired by events in "The Burden of Rule" by ChaoticRice.


	20. Improvisation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I met a man without a dollar to his name, with no traits of any value but his smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Twenty: Improvisation
> 
> Setting: Post-game, one year after Bahamut. Liberties taken with the state of Balthier after Bahamut's crash and the year that follows. Heavily inspired by Person's BalVaan Fic 'Haunted by Dreams Deferred'. 
> 
> Spoilers: Endgame
> 
> Established BalVaan: Yes

It’s a whirlwind when they first see each other again. Or rather, it’s Vaan who brings the wind. Vaan, always the storm, where Balthier is the eye; an ever-watchful core standing fast amidst the force of Vaan’s tempestuous nature. A year is not so long a time to change that about him.

Predictably, it doesn’t.

Thus, Balthier expects the slap to the face as soon as Vaan is close enough to touch him. He expects the hot tears brimming at incredulous storm-grey eyes. He expects, even, the angry shove to punctuate the toll of what has surely been year’s worth of turmoil for Vaan. But most of all, Balthier expects the embrace that comes afterwards which knocks them both to the floor and, ah, yes, there are those tears from before - falling fresh from where Vaan buries his face to the curve of his neck. A storm indeed, wringing out the dregs of its billowing fury until there is nothing left but soft summer rain.

Part of him wants to jest that now he owes Fran seven hundred and fifty-five gil for Vaan's predicted outburst; not oft is he a losing man for bets lest placed against his partner, it seems. But he holds his tongue.

Balthier does instead what a leading man is scripted to do in times like these: he holds his lover close, whispers sweet nothings in his ear, susurrations that gradually smooth out Vaan’s choked sobs to the occasional hiccup, and when Vaan peers up at him with red-rimmed eyes, Balthier kisses the Dalmascan’s pliant mouth and it feels like home. It feels more like home than it did stepping into the Strahl for the first time in a year. It feels more like home than rising Her to the skies. It feels more like home than flight itself.

Beneath the pads of his fingers ravaged by fire, he cups the Dalmascan's face, and learns the softness of it again with this new skin.

Bahamut still lives on in him today. She always will, he has come to decide after wrestling with it for months on end. It has come to settle in its inevitability: she scars Dalmasca's Estersand just as she does Balthier. She has seared his father’s last legacy into his very being with her fires that mottle his flesh with burns. She has gnawed her way into his joints and bones through her shrapnel, shattering limbs that took too long to heal and still remind him of her mercy with aches during the rains.

In this long year there had been a stretch of weeks Balthier thought he’d never be able to run again. Those days then melted away with the patience of a thousand Nu Mou - or rather, the patience of one Fran who stayed by his side every (literal) step of the way - until the only worry he had left was finding leather gloves soft enough that wouldn’t make his burned hands chafe, blister, and weep. And now, even that is alleviated for the most part, thanks to the Garif and the hide of their soft Nanna.  
  
Bahamut was a wench. Bahamut sought to break him.

But like before, when Cid’s plans suffocated him until he could take no more, Balthier laughed, and Balthier lived, though it had been no easy journey.  
  
When they are done kissing themselves breathless and Balthier cannot remember having ever tasted anything other than Vaan, he answers the Dalmascan’s questions as they come - a script he has long-prepared for questions he has long-anticipated.   

 

> VAAN  
>  ( _He rests his forehead against_   _BALTHIER's_ )  
>  How did you survive?  
>    
>  BALTHIER   
>  I've given up on finding an answer to that, love; it would seem the wills of the gods are lost even on me. Perhaps, especially on me.
> 
> VAAN  
>  Who else knows?  
>    
>  BALTHIER  
>  Aside from Nono and the rest of the crew, just you and Penelo. And our queen, I’d hope - ah, you _did_ return that ring, didn’t you? Tell me you at least managed to do that right.  
>    
>  VAAN  
>  Where've you been?  
>    
>  BALTHIER  
>  Everywhere and nowhere. Damnably sentient, mostly. And when I wasn’t, I was learning how to not be without experiencing great amounts of blasted discomfort.
> 
> VAAN  
>  Why didn’t you tell me?  
>    
>  BALTHIER  
>  _(He hesitates, grimaces.)_  
>  I didn’t exactly want you - or anyone, for that matter - running off headlong to see me. I’ve practically made Fran sign a non-disclosure agreement to keep quiet exactly what sort of state I was in for the better part of a year.  
>    
>  ( _BALTHIER runs his hands through VAAN's hair. He grins crookedly._ )
> 
> That, and I'd hate for you to think that a few scars would rid me of my trademark flourish. To make anything but a grand entrance after so long a time would be terribly off-brand. Do consider I've a reputation to uphold.
> 
> VAAN  
>  ( _He chooses to ignore BALTHIER's maddening answer in lieu of throttling him a second time._ )  
>  What've you been _doing_ this whole time _?_    
>    
>  BALTHIER  
>  Not nearly as much as I'd hoped or you’d imagined.  
>    
>  _(VAAN rolls his eyes.)  
>    
>  _ VAAN  
>  Yeah? Because thanks to that stunt I’ve _imagined_ you’ve been dead, so anything’s better than that. Spit it out. I wanna hear everything.

  
And then, Balthier chances a turn at improvisation, going off-book so far as to say, “Do you mind if we take this rendezvous to somewhere more comfortable? Perhaps not on the floor of my very ship? If you’re going to pin me down for an interrogation, I’d at least prefer a bed.”  
  
But Vaan is right on cue again.   

 

> VAAN  
>  ( _A beat. He laughs softly against BALTHIER's temple. Too easy, too forgiving._ )  
>  Yeah. A bed sounds nice.

It has been a year since he has had anything but memory to call upon Vaan’s face, and so a deluxe inn suite is hardly an expense at which Balthier bats an eye. It’s his own first stay in proper accommodations in Shemhazai-knows-how-long anyway. Thinking on it, it could be even as far back as their trip to Archades for Draklor that he last had any semblance of comfort or luxury. But once he has Vaan behind those closed doors, Balthier hardly cares to reminisce. The most important thing of all is right here, right now.

There is no need for a script when they fall into bed. It takes only a moment of fumbling, a bated breath from stage fright of a year’s time apart, and when the curtain rises and sheets part to welcome them both, they settle into their roles with a familiarity that was never once lost; rather, buried like gold in a place only they would ever know.


End file.
